I know. I’m a party
pooper. Trust me, I’m perfectly okay
with that title. I’ve never been all
that good at parties, especially Halloween ones. I don’t like dressing up – spending money on
clothes I’ll never wear again just ticks me off. And the candy . . . the candy makes me want
to hand out bags of fresh brussel sprouts to trick-or-treaters. Seriously people, how many calories and fat
grams and artificial colors and flavors and preservatives do our children need
in a single twenty-four hour time period? Shall we discuss the decorations and costumes
next? Because those are the things that really
put me over the edge.
As we’ve already established, I’m all about the pumpkins and
mums and scarecrows and little girls wearing ladybug wings, but why does Party City
have bloody limbs sitting on tables when you walk in their front door? I apologize for my inability to find the
thrill in a severed head, but I simply do not find such things scary or funny
or festive or spooky. I find them disturbing.
Gravestones in my front yard? No
thanks. Spider webs all over my
bushes? I pay a pest control service to
make sure that doesn’t happen. Ten year-old boys running around with
foot-long plastic knives in their hands?
Have you seen the news recently? Do
we really need to encourage the young men of our country to carry weapons? Twelve year-old girls in flapper
outfits? Ever read the definition of a
flapper? They are described as young
women who drank, smoked, wore excessive make-up, and treated sex in a casual
manner. Pretty sure I don’t want my
daughter in a flapper costume any time in the next, oh, fifty years.
I know Halloween is supposed to be fun, and my children will
participate in it tonight with all the others.
There are ghost figurines on my kitchen counter and a “Boo Y’all!” linen
towel in my powder room. We’ve carved
our pumpkin and roasted our pumpkin seeds.
We are meeting wonderful friends tonight for trick-or-treating and
Charlie and Libby will eat far too much sugar before they go to bed way too
late. But let’s just get one thing
straight . . . I. Hate. Halloween.
Still, there are lessons in most things, even (especially?)
in the things we like the least. And
sure enough, the holiday I never look forward to provided one for me this year.
She told me months ago what her costume would be. I dismissed it. Nodded my head, smiled knowingly, maybe even
chuckled under my breath as I thought, you’ve
got to be kidding. She mentioned it again, several times in fact, as the
weeks of October flew by. I’m sure my
reaction was always about the same.
“We’ll see.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“You might change your mind.”
“There are lots of options.”
Strange how I continue to doubt her, when she’s proven over
and over the type of person she is. Decisive. Confident.
Strong. Independent. Sure.
Not bad qualities, when used in the right ways. Yet I
push them aside as if they aren’t important enough to recognize. As though I can’t see the good in them. As though I would change her if I could. As
if the character traits that make her exactly who God meant her to be aren’t
worthy of acknowledging . . . of celebrating even.
I compliment her when she’s kind. I praise her when she’s thoughtful. I encourage her to be sweet and caring and
honest and helpful and loving. And she
is these things . . . sometimes. And she
will continue to be these things . . . sometimes. But what my daughter has always been, and what I truly hope she always will be, is decisive . . . confident . . . strong . . . independent . . . sure.
We walked in Party City, past the blood covered headless
creature, and she immediately went to the wall of costumes, seeking the only
one she wanted. And I did what I’ve vowed
time and time again not to do. I indulged
my own wants and needs at her expense.
I spent a full five minutes trying to change my daughter’s
mind. I pointed out other costumes, the
ones I wanted her to choose for Halloween.
I reminded her that she had never been a witch or a Native American or a
doctor or an astronaut. I forgot the
fact that Libby has never been interested in the smocked dresses and big bows and
gentle spirit I've always wanted for her, and I tried to persuade her to do . . . to be . .
. what would make me happy. Yes, I stood there in Party City and ignored
everything that makes my daughter who she is in order to satisfy the mess in my
heart. I dismissed the character traits
Libby already possesses, and which will serve her well in the future, and
instead worried about what her current choices say about me.
It took a full five minutes for me to realize my
mistake. A full five minutes for me to
comprehend the error of my ways. A full
five minutes for me to understand that I was actually helping my daughter
become a person who doubts her own decision making skills, instead of one who
knows what she wants and goes after it, regardless of what others might think.
She walked out of the store with a huge grin on her face, and
she spent the rest of the afternoon performing hilarious shows in our backyard
in her black morph suit. Yep. Libby . . . the black morph. Not what I expected. Not what I wanted. But what she chose.
When my daughter wears her black morph suit for Halloween
tonight, I won’t be able to see her beautiful blond hair. I won’t be able to see her big blue
eyes. But I will be able to see her
spirit, and I will be grateful for who she is. Decisive . . . confident . . .
strong . . . independent . . . sure.
Happy Halloween!!!
