On Why Motherhood Must Come with a Sense of Humor

It has not escaped the notice of anyone with children that Halloween is right around the corner. And in a house where one child declares Halloween to be "better than my birthday" the days are an all out frenzy.

Alex has stood by this Halloween love since the age of two. At three, when he fully realized the wonder of knocking on the doors of perfect strangers and being handed candy, it became an all out love affair. That year, when Day of the Dead rolled around, he felt the deep knife-cutting agony of a love affair's end. At the age of four, he was angry when Christmas lights started going up. No amount of Santa chatter would lead him to betray his true love.

I have loved his costume every year, and made them most, my favorite being the carrot he insisted on at the age of three. Although he now denies ever having paraded (literally) around town as a vegetable, I beg to differ. How proud I felt that year, my adorable three year old in his orange carrot cap and dyed orange pillow case walking up to doors. How implecible his manners. How the neighbors "oohed" and "ahhed" over my orange-clad, blue-eyed carrot.

This year, his costume is from Walmart. Worse yet, his only dream is to dress as Super Mario. And there is no greater joy to a first grade boy than chanting, "Trick or treat. Smell my feet. Give me something good to eat. If you don't. I don't care. I'll pull down your underwear." I mean seriously, what could be more fun than saying, "underwear"?

A friend gave us a subscription to Family Fun magazine. Alex has poured over the Halloween edition every day for a month. Such wonders! Decorations! Costumes! Treats! Games! Crafts! He has begged for a graveyard made of green hummus and crackers. Broccoli and celery trees. I made it for his friends today and it was a hit. But for school, he has longed for, begged for, the eyeballs on a fork.

And what kind of mother wants to disappoint a son that loves Halloween more than Christmas?

It seemed easy enough. Buy donut holes. Stick a plastic fork in them. Dip them in white chocolate. Run some red frosting along the edges to give them a bloodshot look and stick a chocolate chip in the center for the pupil. For one who shies away from actually baking, it seemed a dream. So I went to the store this morning and got the ingredients. But there were no donut holes to be found. A sensible mother would have stopped there, accepted her defeat, realized the value of her time, bought a bag of candy that would fit easily into a backpack, and moved on with her day. But not this one. Oh no. No, no. Much better to go to three, maybe four stores looking for donut holes only to be defeated. A sensible mother would have stopped there. Baked a pan of brownies. Logically purchased some baby carrots or cheese sticks or some other thing she actually wants her kid to eat. But not this one. Oh no. This one called her friend's cell phone, hoping he is in a bigger place than Cooperstown (he is) and asks him to look for donut holes.

Fast forward... four hours later, this good friend calls to report that despite having visited three large grocery stores, there are no donut holes. How about coconut macaroons? Oreos? Plain old donuts? "A bag of carrots," this mother should have replied, but no.

Near her breaking point, exasperated by her children, and still without donut holes, this mother calls her husband (who is in town) and begs him please to search the two remaining long shot possibilities. He hears the desperation in her voice and does not question the task before him. He comes home with the goods... covered in white powder and cinnamon, not ideal, but he has them. At this point, the mother has just gotten her kids to bed. The house is an explosion of homework papers and markers and dishes and laundry. She wants only to sleep. But she goes downstairs to make the eyeballs. (She must first find the counter).

Things seem to be looking up. But the white chocolate never melts. It gets crusty and crumbly but it does not melt. She burns her hand on the steam from the makeshift double boiler and in the end, stabs the powdered white donut holes with a plastic fork, sticks in the chocolate chip and attempts to draw jagged, bloody lines with red gel frosting across the powdery surface. She sticks them on a plate and hopes not all the kids want one, because of course, there are not 19 white donut holes, just 13. She throws in some of the cinnamon. Digs out a bag of gummi worms intended for another weird treat from the same anti-parent magazine and tries to make it look as though worms are crawling out from the eyes.

In the end she has produced a cheap looking treat that she wouldn't actually want to feed her children. But, instead, she gets to send it to school to be judged by 19 sweet looking but harsh critics who criticize everything from hair that sticks up to pants that look like pajama bottoms. She hopes they will be forgiving. Her hours-long effort looks like last minute desperation, because in fact, that is what it has become...

The story should end there, but of course, it does not. It does not because how does one transport a plateful of eyeballs on forks? Not in a backpack, that is for sure. So, the same mother, who once thought herself sensible, but now finds herself with a son longing to be Super Mario and a plateful of high-fructose corn syrup eye balls, spends another ten minutes constructing a tent out of foil to enclose the creations and keep them fresh.

I am sure the first mouse of the season will find its way to them tonight.

And that is the end of the tale. Judge not the mother who sends in orange creme filled Oreos, for she is in bed. Her house is clean. And her treat is waiting in her kid's backpack ready to go.