Wish There Was a Costume For That

I have hesitated to talk about Mason’s birthday. But now it’s been about a month and the sadness of it is either all dried up or just dammed up and about ready to overflow all over the place. He’s 8. Eight is great, unless you are the momma of said giant 8-year-old. Then it’s heartache on heartache as you try to pick him up one last time, fiddle around to find a comfy spot on the couch where you both can take a Sunday nap, or even when you realize though he still reaches for your hand on the way to school you feel like you’re holding a man’s hand.  He’s totally grown up.

His “friend” birthday party was a bit of a disaster. Though in late September, Colorado had record temps and our planned mini golf outing turned into a sun-baked whinefest where one boy scaled a porta-john and another one even barfed. His “family” birthday party got upstaged by a golf tournament. And then there were the costumes.

My children have always had a thing for dressing up. Mason especially loved costumes that uniformed him for his imaginary travels to space. While Coop was content in ninja digs and an occasional Power Ranger, Mason always looked for shiny suits and oxygen packs. If his costumes failed him, he’d just build some box armor from cardboard waiting for the recycle bin. After a short break from dressing up – so short I didn’t even realize we were on a break – the boys asked to dress up.

They were sitting in the back of my dad’s pick-up truck – a classic gas-guzzling vehicle meant to pull boats and snowmobiles, and climb mountains and stuff. My boys were fascinated. Not the type of thing that a lot of people around here own. The truck’s tailgate gave them access to the stars and they started dreaming. Next thing I knew they were trying to squeeze themselves into costumes that fit just a month or so ago.

I can’t overstate the squeezing. The costumes were REALLY small. My boys were REALLY big. And all I could do was stare at them, slack-jawed, and unabashedly shocked. But I was not sad.

Following their night flying through the cosmos on the wings of their creativity, I picked up the costumes, helmets, space packs, even a dinosaur suit and stuffed them in a box. I can’t overstate the stuffing. With not a single melancholy thought I drove them to the post office, slapped an address label on them and sent them on their way to Oregon.

Oh those costumes are so happy now.

But I am thinking about a boy with big blue eyes, feathery soft blonde wisps of hair, pink cheeks, and the sweetest, most inquisitive look ever possessed by a 2-year-old.  The baby who took himself so seriously, right from the start. The boy who consoled his big brother during time outs administered for being mean to little brother. And I’m thinking about how much he loved those costumes.

Last year at this time, I had all but given up on writing. I haven’t explained myself, really. But someone hurt my baby. In a moment of maladaptive behavior another student found a way to destroy my Mason’s spirit, his confidence. When I would try to sit down and write, all I could think about were sad things, sometimes hurtful things, things I wished I could say to bullies – imagined and otherwise. It’s unfortunate because as a result, I don’t have a very good record of sweet Mason’s 7^th birthday, nor our family’s recovery during 2013.

Mason wrote us a letter during that time. It started, “I need your help. I have some very big problems.” Then in great detail he recounted the ways in which he’d been tortured by a classmate. What I know now, with it all behind us is this: Mason helped us. He has grown so much this year and shown us the value of courage, kindness, and rising to the challenge. Per our tradition, on the eve of his 8^th birthday I tucked him in and said good-bye to 7-year-old Mason. As it turns out, it was the most gut-wrenching good-bye I’ve said as a parent.

The following morning I left before anyone else woke up. But first I stopped in and looked in on my beast of a boy – the 8-year-old who is head and shoulders above all the rest. I have so much comfort in my heart as I think about the changes in him. Well, that and a video of a new space explorer taking the costumes for a spin. 

  

FBSG: The Quest for Costumes

Before Halloween is a far too distant memory I should tell you that the hunt for our costumes was one of the prime activities over Fall Break. The boys knew what they wanted to be pretty early on, like maybe back in May. Despite what you're thinking -- procrastination -- I was scrambling right up to the end to put them together. 

I did not procrastinate this year. 

For Mason's rendition of Tin Tin and Snowy I looked in every store, and every online venue I could think of for a blue sweater. No where to be found. I was thorough and unsuccessful. In the end we just used a thermal shirt that was in the closet. We also had a hard time finding a plain white dog stuffed animal. The one he carried was a kitten.  He recycled his Indiana Jones satchel and wore some women's knee socks to complete his ensemble. The day after Halloween, guess what popped up at H&M?!??! The dang blue sweater.

When Cooper announced he wanted to be Mickey Mouse I was taken by surprise. He's never been to a Disney theme park and most of his friends were picking persona like minecraft characters, zombies, and Harry Potter. He was a cute Mickey and it took little to no preparation. I glued felt strips on the back of knit gloves (sold for 97 cents in a two pack) and tacked a couple big white buttons on a pair of shorts. We borrowed the ears and completed his look with a pair of thick black tights from the little girls' department. Such an inexpensive costume. 

Steve and I were challenged this year. We could not agree on anything (we wanted to dress as a couple) and when we finally decided on something we couldn't find the right items to complete the look. Frustrating. Then in a random trip to the costume store over Fall Break we had a breakthrough.

Morticia and Gomez Addams. 

Of all things, Steve wore the suit he wore on our wedding day and I wore a skimpy little black dress from Forever 21. I have no business shopping at Forever 21. We both wore eyeliner, without it Steve looked a little too much like the 1%. I also asked my stylist to go a little darker with my hair for the occasion. I am, if nothing else, committed. 

Steve's commitment was more of the press-on mustache variety. 

I believe my dress might have frightened our sweet babysitter. When we asked her to take a picture she managed to crop out all the skimpiness of it and Steve and I look like we're on our way to a funeral. 

Is this weird?

As a volunteer in the classroom I have occasion to dream up two costumes. This year the challenge was to become something a little more clothed. I opted for an all black modge podge of clothes, purple and black striped tights, pointy black shoes, and a large praying mantis in my hair. Also, I had three plastic snakes weaved in there. I didn't take a picture of this number because on this day I also had to carry 40 fruit cups, a tablecloth, pin the face on the pumpkin game, prizes for pin the face on the pumpkin game, 24 bags of sliced apples, 24 cups of caramel dip, 30 spoons, 30 paper plates, a heavy metal cauldron, the camera and an extra lens, and my purse into the school. I kinda broke a sweat. 

Also, this is the get-up I wore while discussing stain choices with the hardwood floor guy. He was concerned, I could tell. 

In related news, I acquired three costumes today. One was actually 67 cents!

Halloween 2007
Halloween 2008
Halloween 2009
Halloween 2010
Halloween 2011

FBSG: The Field Trips

Every Fall Break adventure should be sprinkled with field trip. That is not to say you should take your children somewhere new every day they are on break. This will exhaust them. It also sets you up for disaster once summer comes. Those little brains of theirs remember that load of activity and will expect it all. Summer. Long. Do yourself a favor and be mediocre during Fall Break.

We had 5 trips a field. This sounds like a lot over 10 days, but two of the trips were actually repeat locations.

Trip No. 1: The Zoo

I had the pleasure of being invited to join some other mothers and their sons to the zoo on the first day of break. This was a herd of 2^nd grade-kindergarten boys and four moms. There were a lot of boys. As is our lot in life, we live 17 miles away from the zoo. Once boys were loaded, we’d driven the 30 minutes, and found a parking spot, and renewed our zoo membership to the tune of $100, the sky – which had been forecast to be 70 degrees and sunny – turned cloudy and black. We even felt a few drops.

While I’d like to say we are usually very prepared for this type of thing, the only coat in the car was mine. So, I marched myself right into the gift shop and bought sweatshirts for everyone. I then got sucked into buying huge stuffed animals. It was like a whole thing. Blah!

Please note how large my kindergartner is (on left end).

The next few hours were enjoyable. The boys were with their friends. I was with mine. And we didn’t loose anyone. Have you ever noticed there is a time limit on such peace? Someone in the group of 8 starts to whine a little bit and complain of hunger, the lead dogs start to stray a little farther from the group, the pensive observers start to linger a little longer at each exhibit and you can tell the end is near. This is when I decided to call it quits. Call me a party pooper but I can tell when I’m about to yell at my kids and I don’t want to do that in front of people, so I left.  Everyone should know when to leave.

Trip No 2: Haunted Party Shop

All of the costumes in our house were decided but we were missing some parts and pieces. Before I plunged into trying to sew something before Halloween we decided to visit a costume shop in Old Towne Littleton.  It was super creepy. Mason’s heart rate soared and he was trembling and he had to be carried in. (Yes, we’re those parents.) Once inside he relaxed and cozied up to the deli case filled with body parts. My husband and I jumped our original costume ship and decided on new ones on the spot. Then we procured a few of the small things we needed for the kids’ costumes. I’m totally looking forward to showing off those pictures next week.

Trip No 3: Lifetime Fitness Swimming Pool

I’m always in favor of killing two birds with one stone. Remember the request to go swimming? When another mom friend of mine asked what our plans for Fall Break were (I think she was trolling for ideas) I confessed that our plans were modest, just the swimming pool. Then she saved my day. She offered up her club’s pool and decided to join us.

Off we traveled to Lifetime Fitness. I signed in which was a total cluster and the kids jumped in the pool. Then a lifeguard approached me and informed me that if I didn’t plan on getting in the pool my kids would have to take a swim test. Part of me laughed inside because I was like, “Yeah, my son wants your job.” The other part of me was like, “Oh, I wonder if my other son will have performance anxiety about this.” But I offered them up he pulled them aside -- to another pool in fact -- and told them to swim a lap without stopping, touching the wall or rope, or needing help of any kind. Cooper jumped in, swam his lap, and started back toward the other pool. Mason started a negotiation. Then he methodically slipped into the pool and started swimming. Without a struggle he swam the full lap, climbed out of the pool then looked up at the guy (goggles still on) and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Is that all you got?”

Proud of those two. We may get Mason to do swim team, yet.

I also want to say, this is a brilliant system and I sincerely think more pools should have this rule. 

Trip No 4: A Traffic Jam

One of our field trips was to the city. Yes, I said it. We’ve become that suburban. Wanting to see our friends who had recently moved closer to downtown from the burbs we planned a dinner date at their house – two moms, five boys.

But something, I don’t know what, had traffic all snarly. A drive that literally takes 30 minutes turned into 90 minutes! Let’s review. Trapped in a tin can with two small boys. Dinner time. 90 minutes of snail pace movement.

It was an extraordinary reminder that I don’t like commuting at all.

Trip No 5: The Zoo, II

OK. I know what you’re thinking. Why? Because it is never the same. We met some friends and the weather was much better. We didn’t stay as long, but we saw more. It was great. Well, except for the part when the boy elephant let it all hang out – if you know what I mean. That was so uncomfortable. My boys couldn’t even laugh, they were horrified into silence.  Oh did I mention we were with friends, girl friends?!?!?!?

The most exciting part of the second zoo adventure was our license plate hunt. This is a game we play pretty much non-stop everywhere we go. But for some reason early in the trip we could tell we were going to have a record day. The object of the game is to find as many different states’ plates as possible. I don’t mean vanity plates or one state’s multiple versions. I mean different states. We saw 28! Also, there are a lot of Texans here.

Hoppy Hoppy Joy Joy

How we hopped to it, a photo essay. And the crafts.

New Category

Listen.

I know costumes.

Totally get camouflage.

I’ve even come to appreciate mixing all shades of green on the same day.

But this, this is a new category.

My skills as a parent are still quite puerile but already I’ve become completely calloused to the calling of parent with no pride who can take a child dressed in nearly anything, nearly anywhere.


I didn’t flinch when Mason picked for his big debut at the National Western Stock Show skinny jeans and an argyle sweater. Nor did I protest when he insisted on wearing Mario knit gloves for an entire day at school. And it is with great calm but decided confusion that I go out in public with him wearing a hat of his choice, mismatched long underwear pajamas, and cowboy boots.

Though I find it doesn’t ruffle my feathers, it does put me in a bit of a fashionista dilemma.

First , I consider: Which category is this? Is it sportswear? Costume? Underwear?

Next, I consider: Is it seasonable? Should it be worn from Labor Day on? Or only after Memorial Day?

Then, I consider: Is it hygienic? Does he smell? Are there stains, holes, or excretions from said ensemble?

Lastly, I consider: In all seriousness, should I bring my camera?

It is this last factor than I must pay particular attention to. The tremendous responsibility of supporting your child’s creativity or laziness or desire for comfort or whatever the hell it is that would encourage him to dress like this is facing it’s opposition – the responsibility of protecting your child from overt and malicious jeering, heckling, and perhaps photographic evidence posted on other’s facebook pages with the caption, “Someone please call protective services!”
Also, I suspect that when he is 35 he will be interested in the expression he found at 5. Even if he dresses like this crazy man (follow link) at 35.

It Was All Very Non-Traditional

I'm not sure -- even at this juncture -- if it grew from laziness or a desire to embrace some heritage, but our family left the tree up until Knut Day this year. We did it. Which is to say, we didn't do anything at all. It just sat there taking up all the space in the sitting room (te he he, I just said sitting room). We refused to touch it in the name of Knut. But today is Knut Day and I'm predicting the tree will stay right where it is until Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. But damn it, it better be gone by Abraham Lincoln's birthday.

"Why," you might ask did we leave the tree in its spot for so long. First and foremost, we are procrastinators. In this house, some more so than others, and all equally in denial.

Next, the basement is finally under construction. If I wanted to put the tree away, there is no away for it to rest. This situation is only going to get worse before it gets better.

Lastly, I really have wanted to have a Knut Day celebration of my own for a few years, now.

I'm quite sick of talking about my procrastination. So let's just skip to the basement nonsense, shall we? I cannot even describe to you the disaster this phase of construction has written on the wall. It's all there, time constraints, space constraints, patience constraints. People, this will be a true test of going-through-hell-to-get-what-you-really-want.

Did I mention the unfinished basement is the former home of aforementioned Christmas tree? Oh yes. It's current home is temporary -- though my neighbors will question my grasp of the meaning of "temporary" by the time all this is finished. It's future and mostly permanent home is yet to be determined. This is the main reason I hesitate to disassemble it. Is it better to let an assembled -- though not decorated -- tree stand in your living room; opposed to an undecorated, disassembled heap of tree parts stand in your living room? Yeah, I'm not sure about that. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.

I'm feeling terribly lost in my current predicament because I had such a strong plan up until 6:30 p.m. today. Until today I was resting easy in the luxury of knowing I was -- on some level -- a little bit Swedish and could tell people I was observing Knut Day this year. (This is also a total misnomer. You don't observe it so much as mark it as the day the season of festivity is over with one last festivity.)

We invited a few friends over for a crafternoon and smorgasbord. It was a delightful plan. Now it has unfurled and I have to have a new plan to get that tree out of the house.

But let's look past my panic and talk about what a hit the photobooth at the Knut Day celebration was. Magic. In the grand scheme of my Pinterest fueled thoughts I thought the crafts would be the big hit. But the photobooth was clearly the one thing that every kid wanted to try out. Well, every kid except Mason and another guest who is a) Mason's age and b) a lot like Mason.

The photobooth was assembled half-heartedly and consisted of a cast-off piece of banana yellow broadcloth thrown in front of the T.V. to create a fearfully unironed backdrop. Then I plucked a few props from our prodigious costume closet and provided the kids with a few guidelines. Pick a prop, pose, and take a picture. Hysterical. I will have a photobooth at my next party. I will have a photobooth at the next classroom party. I will have a photobooth at the next fundraiser. Hell, I'd have a photobooth at a funeral. It is a scream. Enjoy the pictures.

We munched on Swedish meatballs from IKEA, veggies, fruits, lemon cakes, and golden raisins in boxes wrapped to look like Swedish flags. I also filled my Christmas card tree with goldfish bags and notes that proclaimed the holiday season to be o-fish-ally over. I served glogg to the adults. I decorated with undecorated smaller Christmas trees, candles shaped like Christmas trees, and even a miniature battery operated Christmas tree meant to adorn one of those creepy miniature towns (it's amazing what you can find on clearance).

The theme was really less about Swedes (because I don't know or remember much about Swedish traditions) and more about blue and yellow. I had the kids create a goat mask, a foam smores snowman, and a goody bag for the tree plundering. Once all the crafts had been crafted or had an upturned nose presented to them, and the photobooth exhausted, pandemonium broke loose. I actually had to use a whistle to get things back to order. A whistle.

Once I got over the shame of using a whistle in the house I got the kids engaged in a good 'ol fashioned game of who can do the most push ups. Then we had a pretty good face off for the most sit ups. Then, and only then, did I encourage them to plunder the tree of its gingerbread cookie ornaments and bags of popcorn.

Here's a short list of the things I was determined to do, but did not:
1. Take a picture of all the Swedish flag adorned raisin boxes.
2. Take a picture of the smorgasbord.
3. Take a picture of the Christmas tree with its edible ornaments.
4. Take a group picture of all the kids.
5. Dress like a scary goat and perform mischievous acts.

Alas...

Christmas has come to an end,
And the tree must go.
But next year once again
We shall see our dear old friend,
For he has promised us so.

There Are No Words

Watching the boys play while they wore these mustaches was only slightly more amusing than watching them try to peel them off without pain. Ha ha ha ha. (I'm sick.)

Your Favorite Gift

This time of year a lot of folks belly up to the pulpit, or step on a box or just write in their annual Christmas letter about the true meaning of the season. So I’m here to keep it real.

Our oldest has a December birthday. And so it seems that we open presents all. Month. Long. It’s a virtual parade of LEGOs, puzzles, books, games, you name it, and we’ve seen it. And those gifts really do mean something to that little boy born in a month wrapped in tradition and dedicated to something much more magnanimous than him.

His little brother, too young to understand the weirdness of a December birthday, too sweet to care about the clout of the newest video games, and too kind to give anything but his whole heart gave Cooper his favorite gift.

Back in November when all the stores had Halloween costumes and candy corn on clearance Mason happened upon a small plush monkey that was dressed in a skeleton costume. The monkey looked like Cooper’s Mo – the original lovie – but in costume. Mason found this hysterical and immediately said, “We should give this to Cooper for his birthday.”

Because it was only a dollar I agreed and tossed it in the cart. In the coming month Mason would occasionally tell me he was looking forward to Cooper’s birthday then he would lean into me, put a hand to his mouth as if to tell a secret, and whisper, “Because of that surprise, mama.” I enjoyed the conspiracy from the point of view of Mason, but I also fretted that his brother wouldn’t find it as awesome as Mason found it. After all Cooper is actually getting old enough to constrain his requests to very mature gifts – scooters, NFL jerseys, a new chess board.

Then with just a few days before the big day Mason busied himself at the kitchen counter drawing and writing cards to Cooper. Without any help at all he drew a stick figure of Cooper wearing a party hat emblazoned with a 7, and spelled out Happy Cooper. He also wrote another note that simply stated, “I love you, Cooper.” Then he folded them into small little squares about ½” by ½” and asked me for an envelope. Instead I found an old box from Valentine’s day.

The box sent Mason over the edge. It was pink (which I thought would make him reject it) but it had a monkey with a heart on it. He squealed with delight proclaiming it was perfect and put all the notes he had drawn inside. Then he patiently waited for Cooper’s birthday.

On the morning of Cooper’s birthday, we started with an early breakfast and present opening. Cooper tore through new video games, a CU shirt (I know, vomit), and some other things he had wished for including $35 cash. And then he came to Mason’s gift. Mason’s little heart was so filled with love his chest was visibly bursting. And I braced myself hoping against hope that at the very least Cooper would be gracious.

Cooper opened the box of notes and read them carefully. He smiled. He said thank you. He gave that monkey in the skeleton costume a hug. All the while Mason grinned from ear to ear. I felt it was a success, but I brushed my feelings under the rug along with all the other commotion of the day.


You know the routine: classroom treats, 27 kids belting out birthday wishes, special stickers from teachers and the principal, all a very big deal in the realm of 7. In the quiet at the close of a long day, however, when I opened Cooper’s backpack and unpacked the remains of his lunch and homework I found a booklet.

It was a book stapled together by his teacher. Apparently something she does for all the kids on their birthday. It was a journal of sorts. He was meant to illustrate and write about his day. On the page dedicated to “Your Favorite Gift” Cooper had drawn a picture of the monkey, the monkey box, and the teeny tiny notes with a huge message.


Every day my children remind me that while I created them, and endured the discomfort of carrying them around in my belly as close to my heart as a womb can be for the better part of a year; they have their own thoughts, their own hearts, and their own amazing lives. This is the gift I open ever year on Christmas morning, and the day after, and the day after that, and every day forever more.





PS -- In case you are wondering, Cooper is NOT in Boy Scouts. That shirt is a hand-me-down that he loves.

Tights and Tinfoil