Monday, November 10, 2014

Mistake

Me, age 40
Caroline, age 10

I am not my best on Halloween.

I know that many people love it, but I have a hard time getting keyed up for a holiday that requires me to be crafty and give my kids a free pass to eat all the sugar they want.

Generally speaking, I try to put on a pleasant smile and go with it. But this year, I’ve done something that I suspect has taken the luster off Halloween – for one of my children, at least.

I’m staying at home to hand out candy while my fanatical husband (who has mapped out the neighborhood with what he calls an optimal candy-acquisition strategy) is taking the kids trick-or-treating. My last words to him, as they all bolt out the front door, are, “Please, please try not to stay out too late!” They are already halfway up the street and completely ignoring me when I add, “The longer you’re out, the crabbier the kids will be tomorrow and the more candy we’ll have. And we don’t need any more candy!” 

Right.

Two hours later, they've not yet returned. Trick-or-treaters have stopped ringing our doorbell, which makes me wonder what my husband and children are doing. My imaginary Halloween cheer has worn off and I’m getting tired. I send him a text:

Is anyone out there? Pretty quiet here.
How are kids holding up?

My husband responds:

We’re still doing well.
On our way to one last street for the finish.

I text back:

Great. Please come home soon or
your kids will be assholes in the morning.

And then:

I saw what you just typed! This is Caroline,
and you called us assholes!

“Oh, shit,” I say. I may have a mouth like a sailor behind closed doors, but swearing in front of the kids hasn’t been an option. Caroline in particular is moody and sensitive whenever I veer into territory that could be construed as crass or sarcastic (or, gulp, disrespectful). I’m sure she is distressed by my text. But why is she on her father’s phone in the first place?! 

  Get off your father’s phone.

:( 

I just want you to get some sleep so you are
not crabby tomorrow. You were kind of crabby
tonight before trick-or-treating and that
was upsetting. I want you to have a great day!


No response. I turn off our outside lights, blow out the jack-o-lantern, and rightly consider tossing the remaining candy in the dumpster. But before I can carry out my plan, the troops return, smelling like autumn leaves and caramel. They are rosy and chatty and high on artificial colors and flavors – except for Caroline, who avoids making eye contact with me and makes a beeline for her bedroom.

After I peel Jane and Owen out of their costumes (fortune teller and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, respectively), I find Caroline (peacock) in bed, blankets up to her eyeballs. Our conversation goes like this:

Me: (trying to act innocent) Caroline, why are you crying?
Caroline: (sort of glaring and crying at the same time) You called us assholes!
Me: (taking deep breath because I know I’m going to be here for awhile) I didn’t mean to call you assholes. It was an accident! It was a mistake!
Caroline: (not convinced, for which I don’t blame her) That was really mean. It hurt my feelings. 
Me: (trying to remain contrite, but how badly I want to put on my pajamas and go to bed…) I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. It wasn’t very nice or respectful of me.
Caroline: (wiping away the last of her tears) Thanks for apologizing, Mom.
Me: (kindly but firmly) But Caroline, in the future can you please stay off your father’s phone…?

I’m certain that when Caroline drifts off to sleep she’s feeling loved and un-assholelike. I, on the other hand, feel terrible, even though my text was not meant for her eyes. What kind of mom calls her children assholes? I go right to my friends for validation.   

My dear friend Katie tells me not to worry. She says it’s not that bad. “I told my oldest son, when he was just three years old, that he was on 'Santa’s shit list.'”

I’m starting to feel better.  

Next, I talk to Tonya, who is always reassuring in a crisis. She asks me, “Does ‘mofo’ count?”

“Yes, I suppose ‘mofo’ counts,” I reply.

“Well, then. When he was a newborn, I called my son a mofo.”

Fair enough. Thanks, Tonya.

But it’s Kylie who brings me the greatest sense of relief, because at least I’m calling my kids assholes and not the other way around. Kylie says, “We were at my mother-in-law’s house with about ten of Howard’s family members for Bennett’s eighth birthday. After Bennett blew out his candles, there was one left, and someone said, ‘Oh, he has at least one girlfriend!’ I was standing next to Howard’s aunt, and I said that I didn’t think Bennett had any girlfriends but that my five-year-old Tate was quite the ladies’ man. To which Tate said, in front of everyone, ‘Mom, you little bitch!’ The room went silent.”

“Oh, Kylie,” I cringe. “That is awful.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure it will be a story we hear again. And again.”

My only hope is that Caroline is able to put my Halloween mistake out of her mind for good. I want to chuck the whole memory in the garbage  right alongside the uneaten candy bars I've successfully filched from my kids when they weren’t looking.