Halloween: From Glittery Costumes to Keeping Everyone Alive
Halloween.
Oh, how I fucking love Halloween.
There is something undeniably magical about the final days of October. The way the trees surrender their leaves in magnificent shades of burnt orange, crimson, and gold. The way the air develops that crisp, unmistakable autumn chill, just cold enough to turn the tips of your nose pink and make you grateful for the warmth of a sweater.
The neighborhoods transform almost overnight.
Ordinary front porches become elaborate displays of the macabre. Skeletons dangle from trees, their plastic bones rattling in the breeze. Artificial cobwebs stretch across bushes and doorways, occasionally trapping an unsuspecting parent who walks directly into them. Jack-o'-lanterns illuminate the darkness with crooked, toothy grins, while inflatable ghosts sway back and forth on perfectly manicured lawns.
And then there are the children.
Oh, the children.
Tiny witches with crooked hats. Superheroes whose capes drag along the pavement. Princesses with glittering dresses and plastic crowns that refuse to stay put. Dinosaurs with oversized tails, miniature firefighters, vampires, ghosts, goblins, and creatures that defy any reasonable explanation.
Their faces are flushed with excitement, their eyes practically glowing beneath the streetlights as they race from one house to the next.
Plastic pumpkin buckets swing wildly from their little hands, growing heavier with every successful encounter.
The air is filled with laughter, excited squeals, and the familiar chorus of "TRICK OR TREAT!"
It's fucking wonderful.
And yet, Halloween has become an entirely different experience as I've grown older.
As a child, Halloween was pure, unadulterated magic.
I remember the excitement of choosing a costume, imagining all the possibilities of who I might become for one glorious evening.
I wanted elaborate.
I wanted beautiful.
I wanted something that sparkled, shimmered, or otherwise announced my presence to the entire neighborhood.
Practicality?
Absolutely not.
Comfort?
Who gives a shit?
If my costume required an unreasonable amount of tulle, glitter, face paint, or accessories that made navigating a doorway nearly impossible, then so be it.
I had a vision.
And that vision was magnificent.
There was something extraordinary about stepping outside into the cool October evening, feeling the crunch of fallen leaves beneath my shoes, and joining the parade of children making their way through the neighborhood.
Every illuminated porch represented another opportunity.
Another handful of candy.
Another moment of anticipation as you approached a stranger's door, wondering whether they would distribute a full-sized chocolate bar or commit the unforgivable offense of handing you a toothbrush.
The possibilities were endless.
Then came adolescence.
And, well...
Let's just say the costumes changed.
Somewhere between childhood and young adulthood, Halloween transformed from an opportunity to dress as something fantastical into an annual competition to see how little fabric could reasonably constitute a costume.
A witch?
Sure.
But make it sexy.
A police officer?
Absolutely.
But apparently one who had misplaced approximately eighty percent of her uniform.
A cat?
Of course.
Just add ears to what was essentially lingerie and call it a fucking day.
Looking back, I find the evolution hilarious.
As a child, I wanted to be the most elaborately dressed person in the room.
As a teenager and young adult, I apparently wanted to be the least dressed person in the room.
And now?
Now I'm a mother.
A mother of two.
And my priorities have undergone yet another dramatic transformation.
These days, my ideal Halloween costume is something comfortable, weather-appropriate, and capable of surviving several hours of walking through residential neighborhoods.
Something with pockets.
Dear God, give me pockets.
I want shoes that won't destroy my feet, clothing that won't require constant adjustment, and absolutely nothing that interferes with my ability to bend down, carry discarded costume accessories, or chase after a child who has suddenly decided to sprint toward the next house.
Sexy witch?
No, thank you.
I'm going as a woman who remembered to wear comfortable shoes.
Terrifying, I know.
But the costumes aren't the only things that have changed.
The entire experience of Halloween has evolved.
As a child, I was completely consumed by excitement.
As an adult, I appreciate the atmosphere, the creativity, and the wonderful absurdity of watching fully grown humans willingly dress as bananas, inflatable chickens, and various members of the undead.
But as a parent?
As a parent, Halloween becomes a strange combination of childhood wonder and logistical warfare.
There I am, attempting to wrangle two children through crowded streets while simultaneously pretending I'm a socially competent adult who enjoys making small talk with strangers.
"Oh, your decorations are lovely!"
"Yes, the weather is perfect!"
"Oh, how old are your children?"
Meanwhile, my internal dialogue is operating at approximately seventeen thousand miles per hour.
Where is my other child?
Did that car just pull out of the driveway?
Why is that person wearing a mask that makes it impossible to see where they're looking?
Did my kid just accept an unwrapped piece of candy?
How many more houses are we doing?
Why the fuck is everyone walking in the middle of the road?
WHERE IS MY OTHER CHILD?
It's exhausting.
And hilarious.
And wonderful.
And mildly terrifying.
Because while my children are experiencing the evening through the extraordinary lens of childhood, I'm experiencing it through the somewhat less magical lens of parental responsibility.
They see a neighborhood filled with glowing pumpkins, elaborate costumes, and endless opportunities for candy.
I see a neighborhood filled with moving vehicles, distracted drivers, dark corners, unfamiliar adults, and approximately a million ways for something to go wrong.
They are thinking about chocolate.
I am thinking about keeping everyone alive.
It's a beautiful balance, really.
And yet, somewhere between reminding my children to stay on the sidewalk and awkwardly chatting with another parent, I inevitably find myself stopping to take it all in.
The magnificent chaos of it.
The cool air brushing against my cheeks.
The sound of leaves skittering across the pavement.
The warm orange glow spilling from windows and front porches.
The occasional shriek of a child startled by a motion-activated skeleton, followed almost immediately by uncontrollable laughter.
And those faces.
Those wonderful, eager little faces.
There is something so incredibly special about watching children experience joy without reservation.
They aren't worried about tomorrow's responsibilities.
They aren't thinking about bills, deadlines, household chores, or whether they said something embarrassing during a conversation three days ago.
They are simply there.
Existing in the moment.
Completely consumed by the wonder of it all.
And perhaps that's what I love most about Halloween.
For one evening, the world gives everyone permission to become someone else.
You can be beautiful.
You can be terrifying.
You can be ridiculous.
You can be mysterious.
You can dress as a queen, a monster, a superhero, a mythical creature, or something so bizarre that nobody has the slightest idea what you're supposed to be.
And somehow, it all belongs.
There is an extraordinary freedom in that.
A freedom to explore parts of ourselves that might otherwise remain hidden beneath the expectations of everyday life.
Halloween invites us to be strange.
To be imaginative.
To be dramatic.
To be a little fucking weird.
And I absolutely adore that.
Of course, the older I get, the more I realize that we wear costumes every day, whether we recognize them or not.
We dress ourselves in the expectations of our professions, our relationships, our responsibilities, and the roles we occupy in other people's lives.
Mother.
Wife.
Friend.
Professional.
Responsible adult who supposedly knows what she's doing.
Sometimes those identities fit us beautifully.
Other times, they feel a little too tight.
But on Halloween, the rules loosen.
The ordinary becomes extraordinary.
The familiar becomes mysterious.
And for a few fleeting hours, we get to play.
Maybe that's why I've never outgrown my love for this holiday.
The costumes have changed.
The priorities have changed.
My tolerance for uncomfortable shoes has certainly fucking changed.
But the magic?
The magic is still there.
It's just different now.
These days, I get to experience Halloween through the eyes of my children while simultaneously trying to ensure they don't get kidnapped, flattened by a passing vehicle, or consume seventeen pounds of chocolate before bedtime.
And somehow, despite the chaos, the worry, and the awkward conversations with strangers, I wouldn't trade it.
Because one day, my children will be grown.
They'll choose their own costumes, make their own plans, and head out into the crisp October night without me hovering three feet behind them.
And I'll miss this.
I'll miss the excitement.
The ridiculous costumes.
The sticky fingers.
The overflowing candy buckets.
The constant reminders to say thank you.
Even the frantic mental head counts.
So, for now, I'll embrace the beautiful madness of it all.
I'll pull on my comfortable shoes, bundle up against the autumn chill, and follow my children through neighborhoods glowing with pumpkins and possibility.
And I'll remind myself that Halloween isn't really about the candy or the costumes.
It's about imagination.
It's about freedom.
It's about the delicious possibility of becoming whoever the hell you want to be.
Even if, these days, all I really want to be is a mother who gets both of her children home safely.
Preferably with a few Reese's Peanut Butter Cups confiscated for quality control.
Happy Halloween, you beautiful bunch of weirdos.
Stay spooky.
Stay strange.
And for the love of all things holy, watch out for the fucking cars.