Thoughts on a Child
Erin Douglass
CostumeNovember 2007
Halloween crept up on us this year. We had the Labor Day heat wave (stifling, especially in our AC-free home), our 7th wedding anniversary in late September (a delightful evening eating fancy food surrounded by people who don't throw the icky bits on the floor) and then, boom, it was mid-October and pumpkins were moving fast at Whole Foods.
That meant it was time — no, let's face it, past time — to figure out Roxy's Halloween costume.
Ah, the annual rite of parenting passage. What do you want your toddler to be? Not only is it an important reflection of you, the creative couple who brought this darling child into the world, but a fleeting moment to be savored. You won't call the costume shots for long.
Here I must note that I am a believer in the homemade costume.
It's how I was raised. Every year, my mother, sister and I would stare at brown paper grocery bags, empty appliance boxes or just the contents of a parental closet and consider the possibilities. Hours later, the tin woodsman, a gypsy, a sheik, even a two-story house complete with candy-welcoming chimney, would materialize. Store-bought never occurred to us.
As an adult, I've hewn to the homemade path. One year I was the Garden of Eden complete with leaves, snake and warnings from God ("Skip the fruit!"). Another year, I was the ghost of India in salwaar kameez and white facepaint. My personal favorite featured a polyester habit, ball and chain, and toy drum — a conundrum. When my then-fiance and I attended a Halloween party as Tipsy and Ho, the Teletubbies that didn't make it, I knew we were meant to be. We didn't use any grocery bags, but there were pipe cleaners.
Last Halloween — Roxy's first — we decided the weekend before her daycare's parade that she would be a biker baby. I think it was her jean jacket, complete with removable fur collar, that inspired us.
Off to the Harley store in Glendale, my visiting mother in tow. The place was jammed with leather-clad shoppers and the overflow from a rally earlier that morning. After weaving through a display of gleaming bikes, we found the children's section near the belt-buckle counter. Moments later we were checking out, a Harley patch, red bandana and Who's Your Daddy black t-shirt in hand.
Rox was a great biker baby. She kept her cool as cameras flashed, wore her bandana without fuss, and refrained from hitting the bottle until the festivities were over.
This year, we decided Rox should dress as something she could pronounce and appreciate. There were a few obvious choices — a lion, a cat, Goldfish crackers — but those seemed too pedestrian. Wracking our brains, Jon, or maybe it was me, finally offered, "What about a butterfly?"
It was perfect. For the last few months, every time the word "butterfly" has left someone's lips, Roxy's eyes have brightened. "Butterfly! Butterfly!" she'll say in quick succession, hands flapping. Jon and I have no idea where this particular verbal/kinesthetic tick came from — A song at daycare? A book? A friend with repetition disorder? — but clearly it stuck. "Butterfly!-Butterfly!" she would be.
We looked around the living room and thought of our options. "The wings from Karen!" I yelped, recalling the fairy wings, complete with wing-shaped box, Jon's mother made Rox for Christmas. Too large at the time, the gossamer set was tucked away for future dress-ups. What better moment than now to haul it out?
Once we figured out the wings, the rest of "Butterfly!-Butterfly!" fell into place. We found black velvet pants and a black long-sleeve shirt for the body. A colorful knit hat offered a perfect base for green and black pipe-cleaner antennae. Florabunga, my stuffed daisy, would serve as a theme-fortifying prop.
Halloween morning I packed Roxy's costume in a brown paper bag and left it in her cubby for the afternoon's parade. Along with the clothes and the wings, the bag contained a last-minute item deemed by some (me) to be the cherry on the costume's cake: a pin featuring a caterpillar with the words "My baby picture." I figured it would help clarify things for those unaccustomed to homemade costume vagaries.
Good thing I thought of it. When I arrived at daycare, camera in bag, I joined a gaggle of hovering parents, frazzled attendants and costumed children. There were lions, sharks, dragons and cats; cowboys, ninjas, elephants and queens. Not a single costume was homemade.
Staring gloomily into the room, I wondered if these kids would ever discover the joys of creating their own costumes — crooked lines, stray staples and odd sartorial pairings be damned. Not that these homemade assemblages are ever easy. The year my sister was a jack-in-the-box complete with tape-recorded, "Pop Goes the Weasel" accompaniment she had to burst from her decorated moving box more than 50 times — and often for multiple viewings at a single house. That was one long night of trick or treating.
Pressing into her class's play area, I found Roxy wandering through the crowd. Her antennae drooped, but her wings stood brightly at attention and the pin was impossible to miss. A feeling of intense, protective motherhood surged through me. So what if her costume looked a little ragtag? At least she wasn't boiling in one of those zip-up pajama numbers with built-in hoodie.
"So CUTE!" one mother cried, a little too brightly, as she and her Pottery Barn Kids-created lion squeezed by. "Awww, is he a...bug?" another said, as Rox and I got into line for the parade. "Is it her birthday?" someone asked, brow furrowed as she studied the caterpillar pin. Each time I smiled and cooed back, squeezing Rox all the tighter.
We parents are, sadly, quite practiced at the art of comparing and assessing and sizing up. After all, we've been doing it to ourselves since...when? Elementary school?
I remember the intense competition of Field Day in 3rd grade. The embarrassment of not having my painting chosen for the hallway art display. The teasing that followed the premier of my bright-red corduroy Toughskins in the fall of '79. I, along with just about every other sentient child, quickly learned that others' opinions are very, very important. How we dealt with this sad fact — ignore the opinions, flout them, suck up to them — was as individual as each one of us.
Twenty-eight years after refusing to ever wear the Toughskins again (and, fortunately, about twenty-six years after learning to appreciate my personal quirks), I looked down at my child with the floppy antennae and realized I needed to make a choice. I could participate in the judging and assessing — or I could chill out.
The parade itself was a blur. Roxy wanted to walk, but only if she could hold my hand and only if blanky could come with. As Michael Jackson's Thriller blared, the older children applauded, parents waved and cameras flashed.
The next day I emailed one mother whom I'd met at the event — and who happens to work for my company in the building down the block. I told her how cute her daughter looked as a cat and how I looked forward to future play dates with the girls. Several hours later, I received her reply, "Erin, Roxy was an adorable butterfly. I am so impressed that you made her costume. You definitely have more energy than I do."
Smiling, I whispered, "Butterfly! Butterfly!" and got back to work.