I awoke Sunday morning to Maggie’s cold nose gently prodding me, this is her way of saying, “Hey get up! I need to go pee.” It was around 6:30. After she had been outside and I had brought her in to prepare her breakfast I remembered that I was out of coffee filters. I was thinking about using a paper towel and cursing myself for not buying one of those reusable coffee filters when I realized that it was so cold in the house I could barely stand it. I went and turned the thermostat on 68 and eyed the couch. Maggie jumped onto it and curled herself into a circle. I decided to join her with a blanket and snuggle up until the house warmed up. Of course I fell asleep.

A few hours later there was a furious banging on the front door. Maggie was barking and spinning in circles and in my confusion I thought that it must be the mailman delivering a package. I always think that I am getting a package, even on Sundays, because I am self centered that way. I stumbled to the window to peek out; I am a paranoid sort who doesn’t open the front door often. I saw my next door neighbor with her two little girls. At this point she was screaming, “911! 911! 911!” I opened the door and she yelled, “Our house is on fire! It started in the basement and it’s spreading to your house. Evacuate now!” I don’t remember what I said to her. I slammed the door in her face and ran to Polly’s door and pounded at it yelling for her to get dressed and get outside. Next I ran to Nathan’s door and did the same thing.

My kids used to ask me if there were a fire in our house and I could only rescue one of them, which one would I rescue. I hate questions like that; there’s no way for a mother to answer them. I always stated that I would rescue them both. The truth was I always knew that it would be Polly who would need to be rescued and she proved that yesterday morning by following me around the house asking questions. “Why do I have to get out of the house? What about the cats; where are the cats? What is happening?” Nathan listened to my instructions clearly without questions. I ran upstairs to wake Alex. He had worked the graveyard shift the night before and was fast asleep in our bed. “Get up!” I told him, “The neighbor’s house is on fire and they say it’s heading for our house!”

He mumbled, “Why do we have to live next door to such stupid fucking people?” and slowly rose from our bed and sauntered out of the room. I was confused and having a panic attack and I literally spun around in a circle trying to figure out what to wear. Not in that “I have a job interview way”, but in the “I am wearing a nightgown what should I do?” way. I pulled on a pair of sweats underneath my nightgown, thinking that was faster than taking everything off and starting over. I grabbed my coat and saw Alex peeking out the window. He was quite literally sauntering around. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t running. “You need to calm down”, he said. I grabbed my purse thinking it had everything I needed, money, bank cards, cell phone, cigarettes, tampons, lipgloss, medication for a major panic attack…

We all ended up on the sidewalk in front of our houses, waiting. Alex looked around for flames and sniffed for smoke. My neighbor is chatty under any circumstances; a fire is a whole new world of talk. Speaking a mile a minute she blurted out that she loaded her dryer, turned it on, later smelled smoke and went to her basement to see that her fuse box was on fire. I reassure her that she did the right thing. Her mom walks out of the house, comments dryly on the fact that the fire engines are taking so long, saying, “It’s a good thing the house isn’t on fire or anything.”

I laugh, too loudly. I wonder if it’s OK to smoke while the neighbor’s house is on fire. I finally break down and pull one out. My neighbor sighs, “Oh thank god. Can I have one?” We all light up, except the kids.

The fire engines finally pull up, no sirens. Maybe sirens are reserved for those who live in nicer neighborhoods? Once things are clearly under control my neighbor apologizes for beating on my door like that. “I really thought that it was going to spread to your house!” “It’s OK”, I try to reassure her.

Back inside my house Nathan goes back to bed. Polly goes to pour herself cereal in the kitchen, and Alex is wide awake. Waking up someone who works graveyard is always a difficult call, but I thought that this time was easy. It didn’t even occur to me not to wake him. He asks me, “Did you look out the window before you woke everyone?”

Of course I didn’t! I was thinking that time was of the essence, for fuck’s sake.

Alex asks me if the neighbor’s husband was home. “No, he wasn’t” I remember her mentioning that he was out of town. “If he’d been here, none of this would have happened. Women blow things so far out of proportion.” Alex claims.

Now I am pissed. I tiptoe around all day so as not to wake him. I really believed that this was an emergency.

As he heads back to bed he says one last thing.
“Next time wait until the flames are licking the house to wake me.”

Oh don’t worry, I think. Next time I’ll wait until they’re licking your feet, and then I’ll think about it.

Is this a gender issue? Did I overreact? What do you think?

For the past several days Alex has been on vacation. It was easy to feel as if I was on vacation too, except for the pesky things like dishes still piling up and the kids calling out that we were out of clean towels, again. I could really get used to having a second pair of hands around here. It was so nice to have the “what’s for dinner?” query of every night answered when I got home by Alex cooking away. I went several times to do the dishes, only to find that he had already done them, and wiped down the counters. When the kids were hitting me up with question number 2409 for the day I could say, “Go ask your father.” Trying to be a parent, a really hands on parent, is very difficult while working graveyard shift and sleeping during the day. I know; I tried to do it for years. It is easy to feel as if you are part of a different world as a day sleeper. Alex and I also were able to spend lots of time together, which was nice. We cuddled up and watched movies; made love, talked and just spent time snuggling. There are usually only a few times per month that we even share the same bed. We spent last week going to bed together, which was wonderful. It has been very cold here lately and I felt totally at ease stealing body heat. We did have a few nights where Alex would steal all of the covers from me and a resulting tug-o-war would ensue. He claimed total ignorance in the mornings. He isn’t used to sharing the blankets anyone. Now we are both saddened by the fact that he has to return to work tonight and we are back to the hustle and bustle and the separate schedules and the days when we have no time to talk .

Also, last week, as I was reveling in the goodness of a man who awoke earlier than I and made my coffee perfectly with a beautiful head of frothed milk on the top and delivered it to me one minute before my alarm was set to go off so I could relax and sip myself awake instead of being jolted awake by a horrible buzzing sound; we heard the news from Australia that my grandmother, my nanny, as I call her, was going downhill quickly. My mother quickly tried to get a ticket to NSW. Last minute tickets were in the $4000 range and my mom was so determined to go and sit by her bedside and so frazzled by the idea that she might not make it that she couldn’t even think straight. She went round and round over the planning until I reminded her of a travel agent friend she hadn’t spoken to in some time. My mom was hesitant, but she called her, and the lovely lady who also happens to be a transplanted Aussie like my mother was able to find my mom a ticket that was significantly cheaper. My mom booked it and started packing. Saturday morning her brother called to let her know that their mom had died.

My mom drove over to my house and we sat together. We talked and cried and remembered. We shared stories of this beautiful, strong woman who made it to the age of 96. We laughed as we both recalled that nanny always had more done before 7 am than we could ever accomplish in one day. It wasn’t that everyone wasn’t expecting this death, it was the fact that being so many thousands of miles away, we were all hoping for more time, and just one more opportunity to see her.

My grandparents came to visit us here in Portland in 1980. Neither of them had been on an airplane before. I remember Mt. St. Helens erupted soon after their arrival and my grandfather commented on the welcome party. My grandfather died in 1991. A lot of people thought my nanny would follow quickly, but she continued on, keeping busy with her art and enjoying her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I had a photo of her that I wanted to share here of my nanny, but Alex’s computer died last night and most of our things were on there with no backup. Yes, we know how foolish that was.

My mom decided to cancel her flight after being notified that she wouldn’t even make the funeral in time. We are going to get together here and have a celebration honoring her life and a mass held in her honor at the grotto, which was one of her favorite places here in Portland. My mom is still dealing with the fact that she was unable to be by her side when she passed. I want to believe that she knew we were all with her in her heart, and that she knew how much she was loved. The day she died would have been her 77^th wedding anniversary. I can see why people turn to faith during times like these, as it is so tempting to believe that she and my grandfather and their son who died before both of them are all together now, sipping a cup of tea.

It’s October, 2006. The time before we must have my mother’s house empty has dwindled to hours. There is no longer time to sort through the boxes and repack them. I have started merely dumping the old boxes into new ones, taping them shut and scribbling misc. on them. The only reason I am bothering to place the stuff in new boxes is because these boxes have been sitting for decades and the bottoms have deteriorated to dust. There are mice in several, awakened from their nests as their shit rains into a new box. There is no more time to care. My heart is racing; the weight of all of this is on my shoulders. My mom is ill and hasn’t slept for days. She is starting to speak in nonsensical fragments not even close to coherent sentences.

There are people around now. Two years have passed since I began preparing this house for sale and the people have arrived at the last minute, offering their help, their cars and trucks, their backs and arms. My mom doesn’t want them there. She whispers to me to get rid of them, but I can no longer do this alone and so I ignore her wish. Why is my mom sitting in the kitchen with her computer on a cutting board emailing Tokyo? People are asking what is wrong with her. I ignore them and try to come up with a system. Only I will deal with the boxes in their raw, dust covered state. After they are repacked and labeled (an absurd term for what I am doing) I will allow people to begin to load them into a waiting vehicle.

My mom is a hoarder, a packrat. It is her secret shame. I am trying to protect her from anyone else finding out, but family members and her best friend are witnessing what can no longer hide in a basement larger than most people’s homes. Some whisper about how things ever managed to get this bad. Fewer look to me. Is that blame in their eyes? So many dumpsters, trips to goodwill, yard sales, items on craigslist, trips to the dump and yet somehow, so much left is here.

I am dumping boxes as fast as I can when I see it, an envelope. It is a letter addressed to my brother in my father’s handwriting. I look around to see if anyone is watching me and quickly shove it deep into the pockets of my jeans. I say nothing to anyone.

Later that night at my house I pull it out and stare at it. It is thick. I knew about this letter before, but it hasn’t been mentioned in years. In 1983 my mom put my brother Matthew into a foster home. She did this for his safety, as he and my dad were coming to blows now that Matthew had started fighting back when beaten. My mother feared for his life. He went to live with a wealthy family with several kids who were grown by that time. My father wasn’t notified of his whereabouts. I was jealous. I wanted to be sent to live with a different family too. I missed my brother. Sometimes we would meet him at secret places (usually fast food restaurants) for a quick visit. He would hug us all before he walked out the door first and I would blink back tears as he headed in a different direction than our home. Walking, he was always walking, no matter how far he had to go, no matter the miles wearing out his shoes or the fact that he had bus fair in his pocket. It might have cleared his head. I’m guessing, of course. Years later I started walking to clear my own.

During that time when my brother lived in another house, in another city, my father begged, pleaded and cried for his son’s return. When that didn’t work he punched us. No one ever divulged the secret of his whereabouts. We were good secret keepers. My dad wrote this letter to my brother and asked my mom to deliver it to him. My brother refused to even glance at it. After a year my brother came back home to live with us. Another year or so and my dad was dead, having walked down the basement stairs to make a noose and end his life. There was no suicide note. My mom and I tore apart the whole house looking for one. It was weeks before she would allow anyone to take the garbage out for fear that it might be thrown away.

A few more times over the years my mom tried to deliver the letter to my brother, but he always refused to accept it. My mom said that she had read it and she felt he should too. I said nothing. I was jealous. This letter was not mine to read.

When I found the letter in a box filled with junk: twist ties, expired coupons, disposable napkins, photos that had gotten wet at some time and were stuck together, ruined, old magazines long since molded, I said to myself that I was just going to keep it safe.

Of course I read it. It is nine pages long and filled with details about my father I was never aware of. He explained his decent into mental illness and alcoholism, his feelings of failure for having ended up being an abusive drunken husband and father. He wrote of his time spent in church praying for the lord to save him. He asked my brother to relay messages to my sisters and me; messages of love and apology that no doubt would have fallen on deaf ears in the early 80s, but now, now they make me weep. I never got those messages. Would they have helped? I don’t know anymore.

I hid the letter in my locked file cabinet and pretended that I wasn’t doing anything but waiting for the right opportunity, maybe after my mom was settled in her new house.

I pretended that I wasn’t mad, not at my mom for not taking better care of the letter and for choosing not to tell me the words that were written to me, but most of all I tried not to be mad at my dad for not writing me a letter like that one. I tried not to be mad at him for not trying harder to make it through his illness.

Finally I admitted to my mom that I had found the letter during the move and held onto it for her. She has demanded it back and I shall return it because it’s not mine to keep. I am glad that I had an opportunity to read it now as an adult. I was ten when it was written. I never would have understood the words then. Now I do.

My dad would have turned eighty over this past weekend. It’s hard to imagine. In my mind he hasn’t aged a day so he still has a full head of hair and a strong build. I remember the way I felt when he hugged me tightly, and whispered in my ear that we were the last two members of the family who were blond and we needed to stick together. His hair was gray, but he never tired of that little joke between us.

My Mom asked me last Friday to go with her to place flowers on his grave and I said no. I only want to go alone. It is three buses and a walk and I still want to do it alone. There is no one in my life that I can talk to about the conflicting feelings I have about loving someone so much and losing him, someone who also had a side where he hit me and said horrible things to me.

Grief. It never goes away fully for me, it changes. I am now 35; my father is forever stuck at 57. I couldn’t have saved him from his fate then anymore than he can save me from myself now. But I am glad that I found that letter and that my dad took the time to write it. Even if it never ends up in the hands of your only son dad, it helped your youngest daughter. Thank you.

I haven’t been writing about Nathan much, have I? I have been waiting, and watching him quietly lately. He is doing much better in regards to keeping calm when he is angry. He is excelling at his new school. I never thought I’d see the day. I almost feel bad admitting that, but I had given up hope that he would make it through school. I just kept trying to find a place that would work for him, and we did. I told him that he would succeed (even when I didn’t believe it anymore) and that I would never give up on him for as long as I live.

He loves his teachers at the new program. His grades are so high and his test results are outstanding. I always knew he was smart, but I couldn’t get him to believe it. Now his teachers have told him and he believes them. He is making plans for college. He wants to be a pharmacist. I have no idea where that came from but I am still sitting in awe over the changes from this time last year. He talks about his future with a positive outlook.

The other day he walked up to me and just wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly. I was feeling a little down and he sensed it. He is taller than I am, a mustache growing on his upper lip. I was blinking back tears when he let go of me and he asked me what was wrong. I told him that I was happy. He rolled his eyes and said, “Girls”.

Over the years, with both of my children, it has been a series of them holding on to me and then learning to let go. I used to call it the ,”I hate you; hold me” stages. I find myself wondering if it continues on as they become adults? I find myself wondering who I am, besides a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister.

Yes, the holidays are over, and have been for awhile, but I have been so caught up in the aftermath that it was painful to even think about typing when I could be napping.

My house is still a mess; there are still pine needles clinging to surfaces even though I recycled the tree on Tuesday. I have gained three pounds because everywhere I turned there was yet another plate of fudge, or cookies, or a glass of brandy (thanks, Mom).

The week before school let out for the Holiday break Polly was given a name for her secret Santa, the boy she was supposed to buy little things for and slip said items into his locker. The name she received was a twelve year old boy, one who liked skateboarding and chocolate, or at least that is what she could gather from talking with his friends at recess. I took her shopping to buy things for this boy, but seeing how I had a problem giving him five days of candy, I begged her to find other gifts. A new skateboard was a little outside of the price range I was willing to enter, so I asked if maybe he would like some of those little techdeckdudes. Nathan used to collect them when he was younger. Polly was adamant that they weren’t cool anymore as she shot me the “you are so tragically unhip” look. After going to store after store I felt as if candy for five days straight might be the best idea after all. I didn’t even give this much thought to my own childrens’ gifts for Christ’s sake. I learned a few things about kids on our voyage. You can’t buy a twelve year old boy a stuffed animal, but uglydolls are “in” right now. Polly also selected a large plastic ring with a hideous purple stone the size of an eyeball because they are called “pimp rings” and it’s cool to wear them. Pimp rings? Who knew? I was glad when we were done.

At my daughter’s school they have banned candy and soda from the premises and from all sack lunches taken off campus. That means that if Polly notifies me at 7:15 on a school morning that she needs a sack lunch because they are going on a field trip and she forgot to tell me I can’t fumble in the fridge and grab a can of Sprite to put in the sack with her hastily made sandwich and crudely chopped carrot sticks because it will be confiscated. I have a serious problem with people telling me how to raise my kids. Have I mentioned this? Probably.

On the last day of school before the holiday break I arrived to pick her up and saw immediately a fire engine and two police cars. As the over-reactor that I am, I immediately thought that my daughter had been hurt. She came out of the school with a sour look on her face and her hand across her heart as if she had been injured, or maybe she was doing a half assed rendition of the pledge of allegiance.

I immediately asked her what was going on, my mind on all of the emergency vehicles, and she dropped her hand as she wailed, “My secret Santa bought it for me!” There on her chest was a button that said “I Love Porn.” I put my hand out and she gave it to me and as she was so afraid of the consequences of this silly button I couldn’t get her to calm down enough to tell me why the front of her school was surrounded by emergency vehicles. I swear she acts like we beat her, which we never have, at least not yet.

Once she realized that she wasn’t in trouble she told me what had happened at her school that had required the 911 phone call.

Since candy is forbidden, and many kids had candy due to the secret Santa event, a boy had skated off to a locale that he thought was safe from the prying eyes of the administrators and teachers. The particular boy had received a gift of candy cigarettes. He had one in his hand and as he stood on his skateboard he lifted it to his mouth to take a nibble. The vice principal came out and without listening to the boy protest that is was only candy, she called the police to report that she had a seventh grader smoking on school grounds, and so they came out to lecture the boy about the evil dangers of smoking as he stood there with candy between his pointer and middle finger, complete with a red tip that may or may not have looked like it was on fire. The whole matter reeks of overreaction to me. The matter could have been dealt with without Police intervention.

Christmas went well and as easy as it could have been to get myself sucked into the family dramas I did not. Alex enjoyed his present, (NSFW) a Fleshlight, and we all ate good food and relaxed.

Next on the agenda is Polly’s homework. She was supposed to read one novel which is a piece of cake for her, and write an essay on, “the ramifications of action figures on today’s society.”

As much as I wish I could speak to her teacher about this assignment, or just write it myself, Polly has begged me to not intervene.

I suggested that she use as a subject her 15 year old brother who played with action figures for years. He would hate me for saying this, but he also played with dolls, and I never tried to stop him. It was only when he started making friends at school and they came over to play at our house that he was mocked for the fact that he had an assortment of dolls in his toy box. He claimed that they were his sisters and it made me sad that he felt that he had to hide the toys that he had once enjoyed so much.

I can’t find my camera. Alex was the last one using it and I dare not wake him because he has to work tonight.

Happy New Year and thanks for reading.

There are a few online journals that I have been reading for so many years that I can’t remember when or where I found them. There is Heather , who is also the founder of Scarleteen ; there is Noah Grey, who recently started writing again after the death of his husband, and Jane from JanesGuide. Jane is no longer writing a journal so when I received an email from her old notify list I was excited to click on it, thinking that she had changed her mind. She was pointing out a contest on her site where she would be giving away sex toys. I commented and won. I was shocked because I wasn’t even thinking about that when I commented. It was nice to correspond with her via email after reading about her for close to ten years. I had a similarly heartwarming moment earlier this year when Heather emailed me and offered her friendship when I was trying to decide about the hysterectomy. I’ll keep the details of the sex toys I won a secret for now in case Alex peeks in here, although he usually doesn’t read, because the package of goodies is a surprise for him for Christmas.

Jane asked me what size T shirt I wanted and I said that I didn’t have the body for the shirts, having seen her wearing one on her site. She sent me two anyway, because she is sweet like that.

As much as I think breasts are beautiful: my breasts, your breasts, all breasts; I have spent the years of my life between nine years old and today hiding mine under baggy clothes. When my package arrived I tried on one of the shirts from Jane and walked by Alex. This man has seen my breasts for almost two decades and he might be just a wee bit bored with them by now, but he actually turned away from the computer and stared at me. I felt funny, strange, self conscious.

I am trying to raise my daughter to love her body just they way it is and I can’t love myself. How does that even work? Today I took a picture of myself wearing one of the shirts. I was trying to get a close up of the words, but it’s still hard to read. The shirt says “This is Jane. (Jane likes it dirty)”

I was thinking about the women I have known who have lost their breasts to cancer. I thought about their strength and their sense of humor regarding the subject. I’ve never been able to fathom strength like that. Everyday I hope that I can get just a little bit more comfortable in my own skin; in my own mind.

Thank you Jane for the beautifully wrapped gifts. I was very touched by your thoughtfulness and the handwritten card.

After several attempts at using the timer on my camera to take a photo of myself and ending up with results ranging from my deranged killer face, the oh my god is my double chin really that big?, the DUI mugshot, the half blink and the no, I am not stoned, why do you ask? Polly came in and offered her assistance. She still wants to be a photographer and I applaud her efforts. She has now started giving directions while shooting. “Don’t look at the camera! Smile! No, not a fake smile, a real smile! Suck your stomach in! Arch your back! Let’s get some animals to pose with you! It’s not supposed to look posed, but pose!”

I was beginning to wonder if maybe watching America’s Next Top Model with her had been a big mistake, although she never did tell me to “Bring it” or to “Look fierce.”

I finally couldn’t take anymore and thanked her as she went on her merry way. I looked through the photos and the only smiles that looked genuine were the ones where Maggie and I were goofing around so I selected this one. No doubt Tyra is going to have to send me home this week. I am no longer in the running towards becoming America’s Next Top Model.

Hair by Tammy using the “Can I skip a shampoo today?” method (answer is no) and also the this is what happens when you need a trim and your color touched up but you’re too cheap to pay for it. I also had a stocking cap on today because I am tired of being cold. Kudos to Hat Head for the help achieving this style.

Makeup by “Who’s Got the Time”with a special addition of Blistex Fruit Smoothie lip balm that came as a gift with the purchase of a Stridex product.

Teeth appear courtesy of Camel cigarettes, coffee and my dental hygienist who WAS dropping a hint when she told me bleaching was half off for the month of November.

Black T shirt and underwear by Hanes , with special thanks to Jennifer Love Hewitt . I only wish she’d said, “So what if I have cellulite? Fuckers!”

Paint on sleeve of shirt by Ralph Lauren in a color I can’t remember the name of, but the room I painted (as a job for a woman who will only use Ralph Lauren paint) with it looked like pottery clay when it was done.

Jeans (not pictured) off of Ebay in the style cheap with a size of I think these will fit! only to find out that they are too big and I need to get a belt, some suspenders, or gain 20 lbs. .

Dog: One of a kind original German Shepard complete with overbite.

 So, riddle me this; If my Mom bought six cubic yards of gravel and asked me to lay it six inches deep in a space 14 ft. by 16ft., how much would I have left over when I was finished?

If you answered, a lot! you would be correct. I never did do the math on it because my mom had already ordered it and had it dumped in her driveway before she asked me so I figured why ask me now?

Before

After

The reason for the gravel is mom is having a shed delivered next week. I thought this was not so exciting until I went with her here . I can’t find a picture of the exact model she ordered, but it is so cute. It even has its own little front porch and dutch doors. Now I really want a shed all my own. Jane was recently writing about having difficulty writing at home, and since I have been dealing with the same issues here, I have decided that if I get a cute little shed and have it wired for electricity I will be able to sit in there and write and write. It will be the room of my own I’ve been waiting for. Of course it won’t happen and even if it did Polly would be knocking on my dutch door whining for me to play Life with her or to take her to the mall and Nathan will be asking me how much cash I have on hand and by the way, would I go to the store and pick him up a Snickers, and Alex would laugh at me as I sat in my shed and pouted as the dog scratched at the door, because he knew the whole time it wouldn’t work out the way I wanted it to. But a girl can dream.

Last week I moved the large wooden play structure in my mom’s yard because that is of course where she wanted her cute little shed placed. The tuffshed man said we (me) needed to shovel up all of the bark mulch because it would lead to sinkage. I thought that he said shrinkage and then I remembered that Seinfeld episode about what happens to penises in cold water and I giggled like a twelve year old boy. After I had done those tasks I filled wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow load with gravel and pushed it up the slope to the area and dumped it. My mom’s yard is huge, something like a half acre, and she wanted the shed at the back of the lot. She came out to cheer me on occasionally by telling me how much weight I have lost in the past few months.

The cool thing about working at her place is when she tells me to go and grab a bottle of water from her fridge and I return with a nice cold beer she doesn’t care. Plus, she lets me bring Maggie, and Maggie loves to play in that yard so much that she runs and runs in circles until she can no longer run and every night she sleeps straight through without asking me to take her pee at 3:30 a.m.

One more thing: My Notify List has been disabled so that I can go some tagging and editing with sending heaps of e-mails out to the two people who signed up for it. I am not sure if I should even bother with it even though I love those two people who signed up, even though I don’t know who they are.

My daughter just walked into the living room and told me about twins at her school named Libba and Elan. “Oh”, I asked, “are they identical?” “No Mom”, Polly replied in that voice that screams You’re So Dumb!, “he has brown hair and she has blond.”

I didn’t even ask which was which.

For the first time this year, I had two children who didn’t want to celebrate Halloween with me. Last year Nathan and I were moving my Mom out of the house she had sold and into her new apartment and so my sister Monica took Polly trick or treating. This year Polly wanted to go to a friend’s house to pass out candy and Nathan wanted to go with his girlfriend to help her take her little brothers trick or treating. I had always heard how fast it would go, those years with the little kids, and to cherish those moments while they lasted, but I don’t believe it really hit home until this year when I knew they would rather be with their friends. So I let them go.  I stayed home with the puppy Maggie and the cats. Alex had to work so we had the whole house to ourselves. I baked an apple rhubarb crisp. Maggie waited for me to drop peels as I worked on the apples, the way way she waits when I peel potatoes. We played fetch in the backyard in the dark, with nothing but the back porch light to go by. I thought of my kids over the years in their different costumes. Nathan was a clown, Barney,a clown again, Batman, a skeleton, Superman, Darth Maul, Zorro, Darth Vader, Scream, Leatherface and an assortment of masks that could only be described as yucky, or scary. Polly was Pooh Bear, A Bunny, a Princess and then came years of different variations of the princess theme. She was a ballerina princess, an ice skater princess, a fairy princess, a Glinda the good witch princess. Every year a princess, and I let her just go with it. Alex would wail,”A princess again?” and I would just shake my head at him to be silent. Then one year she announced she wanted to be a cheerleader. A dead cheerleader. That was a fun year because I got to go back to the way I wore my makeup in the 80s when I created her face. Most of those years Alex was unable to go with me to take the kids trick or treating because he had to work. Two of those years I was unable to go because I had to work, and for a baker, Halloween spells the beginning of the hell that is the holiday season. The first time Alex took the kids trick or treating while I was working I cried while I loaded sweets in and out of the oven. By my third year at that job I said to my supervisor before Halloween, “I’ll be in late Halloween night!” and she wasn’t even bothered by that.

Two groups of kids in costume were all that showed up at our door. When Nathan came home he said that there weren’t many kids out in the neighborhood he was in and predicted that Halloween as he used to know it would be dead within three years. Polly had a good time passing out candy, but she seemed to miss having some to eat ,because she wanted to go to the store to buy some. No one wanted apple rhubarb crisp. Maybe next year I’ll have made a friend or two and I’ll have someone to hang out with.