I really love Halloween. Not the scary stuff, but the fun stuff. The jack-o-lanterns and the dressing up and the trick-or-treating are all wonderful. I’ve always loved Halloween. As a kid with a big imagination and a sweet tooth, why wouldn’t I? I got to dress up and fill a bag full of candy from all over the neighborhood. What could be better?
I have no idea when I first started to dress up for Halloween. We don’t have pictures of Halloween past that I’m aware of. There are dozens of close up shots of flowers, but no little kids in costumes. Go figure. Still, I know I trick or treated as a kid.
The first costume I recall included one of those awful plastic masks that were hard to see out of and hard to breathe through. It was a woman’s face with blonde hair. I think it was Sleeping Beauty or Goldilocks, but I can’t be sure. Either seems like an odd choice for me, but I imagine it’s what was available at the store at the time.
My mother isn’t exactly what you’d call creative. My brother and I took care of our own costumes for the most part. I seem to recall that he was a hobo more than once. He did create a rather impressive robot out of odds and ends one year that left a lasting impression on me.
My costumes weren’t always the best, and honestly I don’t think the neighbors had any clue what I was dressed as half the time. That’s okay, since most of us had to wear our winter coats over our costumes anyway. I never had a great costume as a kid. Charlie Chaplin with his colored scotch tape mustache was kind of a bust. I didn’t give up though, not until the final year, in high school, when I pinned some ears on a grey sweatshirt and used eye pencil to draw on whiskers. So lame, but at least I didn’t go alone!
When my son came along I swore his Halloweens would be memorable. For his first Halloween I sewed him the most adorable pumpkin costume, but it turned out way too big. At the last minute I put him in white pajamas and stuck on a cute little puppy bib and called it done. He was darling.
At two he wore the pumpkin costume, and it was perfect! When he was three I sewed him a lion costume that was equally charming. I practically swooned when I saw him in it. Then, at four, he decided that he had to be Batman. A small part of me died inside, but he was happy.
At five he “spotted” a cute leopard costume, and I had to admit that I couldn’t have made it myself for the same price, so it was store bought again. Then there was a Power Ranger costume, and a Ninja, and who knows what else, until he decided to put together his own costumes.
One year it was Darth Mullett… a hillbilly version of the terrifying Darth Maul from one of the newer Star Wars movies that I don’t like. He donned red and black face paint and a wig, and he looked pretty bizarro. He was happy. Another year he was a creepy pumpkin patch guy. He made a pumpkin mask, then borrowed a fall leaf garland that he wrapped around himself. He looked pretty awesome.
My son is too old to trick or treat now, and Halloween has lost some of its magic for him, but I still love it. I enjoy being outside and watching the neighborhood come to life. I love to see the little ones experience it for the first time, and to joke around with the teenagers who are trying to stuff their pillowcases with free candy and hang on to their childhoods.
I think back to all those freezing cold Halloween nights from my childhood, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
My sweetheart gave me a little history of Christmas and the Epiphany today as we took the Christmas lights off the garage. The lesson continued on the way to dinner at Kona Grill. You see, I just got back from Hawai’i and there’s really no food in the house, so dinner out was in order. My sweetie suggested Kona Grill to extend that Hawaiian feeling.
The lesson was fascinating and I learned about the Twelve Days of Christmas. I also learned that the Christmas season is now officially over, if you count all twelve days. Over. Done. Finished.
Kind of like my vacation. Today was the first day back to school, and it was a long one. Today we tried out a slightly new schedule, regrouped students for both math and reading, and began the study of fractions and magnets. I also had a new student start today, and I worked on report cards after school for two hours. They are not yet finished. Yes, vacation is over. Done. Finished.
This is not a boo hoo, poor me post. I’m very fortunate and I know it. Few people get to take off two weeks in the middle of winter and escape to Hawai’i with loved ones. Few people get to take off two weeks in the middle of winter, period. I enjoyed the time off and I especially enjoyed the trip, but now it’s over and real life has returned.
Real life means bills and laundry and bedtimes and deadlines. It also means a reality check on the state of my health and well being. Mental health? Great. Rested, relaxed, batteries charged and ready to go. Physical health? Uh… not so great. No, I’m not sick (cross fingers, knock on wood, chant a magical incantation, anything to keep me well). However, and this is a big however, I’m not in very good shape either. The holidays and the cruise were delicious and I thoroughly enjoyed them. Now, though, after our fabulous Kona Grill dinner, I have to face the music that, like Christmas, vacation is over. Vacation mode eating needs to end too.
I’m not enthusiastic about facing the scale, but I feel like I have to. I know I’ve gained weight. I see it. I feel it. My clothes are tight, my face has rounded out even further, and my multiple chins are wiggling whenever I speak. Rolling over in bed is becoming paramount to an Olympic event, and tying my shoes is enough to get me winded. I hate this feeling. Ok, so maybe my mental health isn’t quite as fabulous as I first suggested. Just like Jacob Marley I wish to be free of the chains I’ve been forging in this life. To quote Scrooge, “I want to live!”
It’s time to start over. Not those absurd New Year’s Resolutions that some people make, but the baby steps that always lead me in the right direction. I need to revisit my 47 for 47 challenge page, eat better, move more, and allow myself to be ok with who I am, even though I’m not perfect. Here we go again. Here’s to your, and my, health in the New Year.
Here we are, December 23, and in spite of all the wonderful experiences I’ve been enjoying, there is a tiny, dark place in the back corner of my mind waiting for the bad news. December brings a heightened sense of everything to me. Highs are higher, lows are lower, and there is an assault on the senses. This isn’t all bad, not by a long shot, but it does take me off my normal path a bit.
Let me explain, if I can. First, it’s the end of the first semester of school. As a teacher, it’s a time to push to the halfway point, wrap up the testing, freak out over the data (why oh why didn’t little Abigail reach her midyear score in math, and why is little Derrick slipping backward in reading?), and prepare report cards. Oh, and clean up the classroom before break (and unplug everything and fill in the energy conservation survey) and make sure the lessons are ready to go on January 6th, and write out the thank you notes for all the sweet and generous gifts. And don’t forget to make that last phone call to that concerned parent and fill out that field trip form and complete the paperwork for additional services and a few other things. Ok, that’s just school.
Then there’s the assault on the senses. I love the smells of Christmas. Pine reminds me of when we used to get real trees (my allergies are thankful for the artificial one, but the aroma from a candle just isn’t quite the same). The smell of cinnamon and baking cookies can’t be beat, but my favorite Christmas candle scent is cranberry. They make the house so inviting.
There is also the music. Concerts from the school auditorium to the symphony hall give us live music to enjoy, and the radio, tv, shopping malls, drugstores, and even restaurants all pipe in Christmas songs. By the end of the season I will have heard “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” approximately 862 times, but oddly I haven’t heard the Bruce Springsteen version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” even once yet. Maybe today will be the day.
There is also more to see at Christmas time. My house is fuller, what with a fake tree in the living room and decor strewn about here and there. There is so much more color, and so many extra lights, both indoors and out. We go out of our way to see these beautiful displays, and admire the effort that people put forth to create them.
Then there are the tastes of the season. Diet and good health be damned (I will pay dearly for this attitude come January, I already know that). The sweet cool peppermint of a candy cane, the rich warmth of hot cocoa, and the smooth cool deliciousness of a glass of eggnog are all tastes I associate with Christmastime. There are the more grown up pleasures too, like the bubbles of the champagne or the tangy cocktail sauce on a tender shrimp.
Finally there is the feel of Christmas. There is the cold night air and the warmth of cozy pajamas and fuzzy blankets on the couch while we watch old movies. There is the snuggle from my puppy (although, really, she snuggles year round) and the snuggles from my family (ok, they do too, but somehow it seems a little sweeter at Christmas). Cozy scarfs are brought out, and earmuffs and gloves are pressed into service as we brave the outdoors on cold nights. Of course it’s nothing like the snow and cold of my childhood, but it’s enough for me.
These are the good Christmas time feelings, but there are some that aren’t so great. There’s that feeling that I will let down my loved ones somehow if I don’t get the perfect gift. I’m getting better about this one, as my gift list has dwindled way down, and my son is older and has pretty specific requests that I am normally able to fulfill. I know this is more a result of listening to the endless messages of advertisers than the expectations of my loved ones. Seriously, at what other time of the year would you ever even consider giving someone a beard trimmer, a twinkie maker, or a desktop bowling set?
I also don’t like the feeling of rushing or being pressured. I don’t like the feeling that Christmas is some sort of competition with a deadline. I have to remind myself that my family will have a good holiday whether I forget the rolls or not, whether there are two types of vegetables or one, whether there are six stocking stuffers or five. I have to let it go.
I also have to let go of that little dark niggling feel of impending disaster that I mentioned earlier. Two unpleasant things have happened in Decembers past, and they both haunt me. The first was a minor traffic accident. My former husband and I were two blocks from our apartment stopped at a red light when the big red pick up truck behind us crashed into us. It caused a great deal of damage to our car, but no injuries, thank goodness. It was two days before Christmas. It made me fearful and I had many bad dreams about running into other people after that.
My Mooie looked like this when I found him abandoned in the desert.
The second December disaster was the loss of my beloved fur baby Mooie. Mooie was Mozart, a little tiger kitty I had since he was abandoned in a desert wash as a tiny kitten. He was psycho and beautiful and I loved him. When I was pregnant with my son, Mooie would burrow under the covers with me and curl up against my belly. I think that is the sweetest memory of my pregnancy. Anyway, the following year, my son’s first Christmas, he was being a maniac. Worse. A complete pain in the ass. He would run across the bed in the middle of the night and wake us up. We tried closing him in another room. He destroyed the rug. We tried closing him in the garage. He kept us up crying all night. Finally, in exhausted desperation my former husband insisted that we put him out for the night. I didn’t know what else to do so I reluctantly agreed. He was an indoor cat from the day I found him. I was sick about it.
The next day we went off to work, figuring he would be home soon. Late in the afternoon I got a call from the ex. “Come home, there’s something terribly wrong with Mooie.” The guilt. The anxiety. The terror. He was under the coffee table and wouldn’t come out. His eye. Oh no, his eye. We wrapped him in a blanket, got him in the carrier, and cried all the way to the vet. She believed he had been hit by a car. His jaw was broken. He was bleeding internally. His eye… I can’t talk about his eye. I was heartbroken. We did this. We allowed this poor creature to be horribly injured because he was being an inconvenience. We had to let him go. He couldn’t recover from his injuries. But somehow he came home. Somehow after being hit by a car he climbed over the wall into our yard and came home to us, the people who put him out.
I will never forgive myself for letting that happen. I will remember that sweet, crazy, little grey cat every December for the rest of my life, and I will always look over my shoulder in December, even as I enjoy the season.
So lame, but at least I didn’t go alone!
He donned red and black face paint and a wig, and he looked pretty bizarro. He was happy. Another year he was a creepy pumpkin patch guy. He made a pumpkin mask, then borrowed a fall leaf garland that he wrapped around himself. He looked pretty awesome.
BulgingButtons 