the art of being, on Halloween
Halloween was never for feminists.
Whoever invents kids’ costumes is a sadist; whoever buys them is a masochist. They fall to shreds before you get to the first house. They’re never warm enough. They’re never rain resistant. Boo. Boo and bah humbug to overpriced pieces of crap.
These were the thoughts running through my head as I drove two ballerina fairies through the rain, bumping up against a deadline, glaring at the red maples.
I could blink, for just a second, and they’d be grown. They’re pouring their own coffee, changing someone else’s diaper. And I missed it, because my eyes shut for that brief moment. Because I wanted, so chaotically, to have a career when they wanted trick-or-treating.
I gave up on Medusa, forgot to have fun. I threw the snake hair on my knitting chair, told them we’d carve a jack-o-lantern some other year.
But those little round faces, those innocent pumpkin cheeks, were fading. Years were flying by, out of my control.
I just want to be a mom.
I just want to stop doing. Just enjoy being. Just…
“Hey, let’s carve that jack-o-lantern!”
* 193 words on the 3rd definition of boo.