A Revealing Halloween

The first week of September, my oldest daughter, who in her own words is “four and three-quarters” sat me down to discuss our Halloween costumes. After she decided she was going to be a rock star, she asked, “Now what are you going to be Mommy?”

What a celebrated gene pool moment! My child loves Halloween as much as I do. It has always been my favorite holiday. No expectations, shopping lists, or stuffed turkeys with red jelly. All one needs is a great costume and a large bag of candy. When I lived in LA, I threw an annual Halloween party filled with large crowds, wild dancing, and fabulous costumes. A memorable moment was when I greeted the cops dressed as a cop. While they were not happy with the decibel level of our party, they were impressed with my costume. Some of my other favorites were flapper, disco queen and, yes I admit, dominatrix.

So when I decided to be a pumpkin this year, I knew something was amiss. Dominatrix. Pumpkin. Could this be the same person?

My mother was the first to protest. “You can’t be a pumpkin. I think you should be Super Mom.” While I was flattered by my Mom’s suggestion, she is my mom. Of course, she thinks I’m super. But Super Mom, I am not. That title is saved for moms who fold their kids’ underwear into nice squares and successfully feed them broccoli.

I asked some friends in my mom’s group what they were planning on being for Halloween. Several of them responded with their children’s costumes. Interesting. When asked about ourselves, we discuss our children. Sounds like a Dr. Phil “aha!” moment and material for a future column. But first I need to finish obsessing about costumes.

My friend Maile is going to be a fairy godmother for moms. Coffee in one hand, glass of wine in the other. Now that’s creative thinking. I say just add a liposuction wand to her powers and she’s in business. I also heard about a Rotten Tooth Fairy and Space Mom. Maybe I just needed to add a twist and be a Pumpkin Pie or better yet, a Pumpkin Patch.

“You can not be a pumpkin.” Annie yelled at me. “I won’t allow it.”

“There is nothing wrong with being a pumpkin,” I said. “It is organic, earthy, and has an orange wig with a green stem. That’s kind of sexy.”

“No, it’s not. “ Annie pressed. “You need to be Super Girl. You look just like her.”

She has boys so she lives in the world of Super Heroes. I don’t even know what Super Girl looks like, but I liked the idea.

I called my friend Noelle Schoop, a professional Hollywood stylist. If anyone could turn a pumpkin into Super Girl, it was Noelle.

“Halloween is the one day of the year when it’s acceptable to indulge our fantasies. As moms, we shut the door on that side of ourselves that says, “look at me.” Noelle explained. She was right. I have never fantasized about being a pumpkin, but Super Girl just seemed so revealing, both physically and emotionally.

“This is the one night of the year to step out of your comfort zone and expose yourself.” Noelle added, “I am sure you feel super on the inside, so just do it. Dress as Super Girl.” I actually feel more like a pumpkin, but I had three votes for a Super costume. How could I say no?

I went to Costume Palace and got the largest Super Girl outfit available. My kids went nuts with excitement. And I’m having a pretty good time, too. I unloaded the dishwasher and mopped the floor in my costume. I was laughing the whole time. I’m thinking this costume could make domestic chores a lot more fun.

So if you see a large red cape walking down the aisle at Albertson’s, it’s probably me. Getting a few last minute essentials.

The Chaos Factor

I woke up in pain on Thursday morning. My lower abdomen was aching, as if I were having contractions…as if I were in labor. I bolted up in bed. I’m having a baby! I screamed.

I reached down and patted my stomach. No baby. Just a big layer of fat.

Reality finally arrived. My girlfriend Renata was giving birth at this very moment. She was in labor and I was feeling her psychic pain. Around 8:19 am, the exact time of delivery, the pain stopped. I felt nothing.

That’s until I went to Mission Hospital the next day and held her little bundle of baby boy joy. I had forgotten how delicious newborns are. My womb began to throb. And throb and throb and throb.

I came home with a gleam in my eye. “He is the most beautiful baby boy I have ever seen,” I declared to my husband. I threw myself into his lap and laid a big smooch on his cheek.

“Oh no,” he replied, “There’s nothing more dangerous than a woman who has just held a newborn baby.”

Now what the heck is that supposed to mean? Was he insinuating that we, or let’s get more neurotic here, that I am not ready for a third child? I am sure the fact that I have gone on laundry strike, started buying corn dogs for dinner and enrolled our youngest in five days of pre-school have absolutely nothing to do with it.

Or maybe it has everything to do with it. Now I have started working, using a few brain cells and having a moment or two to myself. It is at this point mothers erase all memories of sleepless nights and trips to the ER and begin to obsess on the beauty of the newborn.

This was too big of a decision for my feeble mind. I decided an official poll was in order. First stop, Renata’s house. While holding beautiful instigator baby Nicholas, I asked her, “Do you think I should have a third child?”

She laughed-not a good sign. “I think it might send you to the funny farm.” While I wanted to protest, the words didn’t come. Having two girls 13 months apart had been a bit rough on the old psyche. I put her down as a ‘no.’

Lisa, already a mother of three girls, cracked open a bottle of chardonnay and poured us each a glass. After a few sips, she leaned forward and whispered to me, “Don’t do it.” Then quickly retracted her statement with feelings of guilt. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change a thing. I love my kids.”

That was two ‘no’s. The future of Chris/tine Jr. was looking bleak. I gave Samantha a call. She recently had a hot summer’s night filled with passion that had lead to her pregnancy with baby #2. I was thinking she would be the one to give my poll a much-needed ‘yes.’

“I’m not the right person to ask,” she started, “I’m having a rough pregnancy.” That was probably because the morning after her night o’ passion, her home got hit by a big pile of landslide dirt. She obviously has more on her mind than whether her half-brained girlfriend should have another baby.

I called Annie, the truth slayer. All she said was, ‘Wow.’ I put her down as ‘maybe.’

3 ‘no’s and 1 ‘maybe.’ The poll was not turning out quite as I had expected. I decided to turn to another numerical source-my father, the mathematician. I asked him if there happened to be a formula that can determine if parents are ready for another child.

He told me about a colleague of his who had constructed a theory that attempted to quantify the chaos of kids. For every pair of children present in a household, there is a chaos factor of one. For example, I have two kids so I have one pair (kid A and kid B= AB) and a chaos factor of one. But if you have three kids, you have three possible pairs (AB, BC, & AC) that make for a chaos factor of three. If you have four kids, your chaos factor goes up to six.

I felt so darned proud of myself I could understand some math at 4:30 in the afternoon.

“So what do you think, Dad, can I handle a chaos factor of three?”

My Dad laughed. For some reason, everyone finds this subject hilarious.

“You are up to your eyeballs in chaos,” he replied, “But if you want to give me more grandchildren, I am thrilled to have them.”

I put down his final answer as a ‘yes.’


What are you going to be for Halloween? Please email me your costume for my next column. cfugate@verizon.net