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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Jacques Chitte who wrote (4186)	10/31/1997 3:19:00 PM
From: Rambi	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 71178

When the little goblin wants to be Barbie, or Hillary, do NOT get in her way with creative and original ideas. I offer this true story for your penni on parenting folder. Every Mother of the Year contender knows that she has to make her child's preferably original Halloween costume by hand. So in spite of the fact that I can't sew, have no artistic ability, and am bored into a coma by the sight of a spool of thread, I am determined that when the other moms get together in the car pool line to discuss who made whose Halloween costume and who bought it at (horrors)The Store, I will be able to smile smugly, having done the right thing. I pore over women's magazines in the line at the grocery store. I see marvelous creations whipped up in minutes from a yard of material, some barbed wire and an egg carton and I jot down innovative ideas in my checkbook, particularly the ones that require only a gluestick and a magic marker, these being the limitations of my eye-hand small motor skills. Some of the creations should be nominated for an Oscar: ballerinas who could fit right into the corps de ballet at the Bolshoi, inanimate household items so realistic that an unwary homemaker might attempt to plug one into the wall, animal costumes that could get a child trussed to the bumper of a pick-up truck if he wandered into the woods during hunting season. I finally find the perfect costume-one that requires only a sweat suit, some felt squares and glue. "You are going to LOVE your Halloween costume!" I chirp at Ammo, seven at the time. "I wanna be a Ninja Turtle," he says. "Oh, everyone will be a Ninja Turtle," I wave my hand dismissively. "You are going to be something much more clever. And I am going to make it!" "I wanna be a Ninja Turtle like Stephen. He got his at K-Mart. And so did Barry." I roll my eyes in disgust. Stephen and Barry's mothers obviously are not going to be Mothers of the Year. "I'm going to make yours so that you'll know how much I love you." If you love me, you'll buy me a Ninja Turtle at K-Mart." "Nonsense---everyone will think this is so cute." I whip out a black sweatsuit. "What is it?" he asks doubtfully. "Well, it's not done yet. I have to glue the felt circles on. See?" I place red, yellow, and green felt circles on the front of the sweatshirt. "What is it?" "It's a traffic light!" I exclaim, amazed at his obtuseness. "I don't wanna be a traffic light," says the stubborn, ungrateful child of the man who eats dinner with us occasionally. "Yes, you do." I say, opening a large gluestick and feeling very creative and competent. He shakes his head and slouches off, muttering, "I wanna be a Ninja Turtle." On the day of the school Halloween party, I must admit the effect isn't quite what I intended. The circles just didn't seem to say 'traffic light'. And the wilful child keeps crossing his arms across his chest despite my repeated reminders that no one could see the lights if he did that. When I pick him up after school, he is wearing the sweatsuit but no felt circles. "What happened?" I cry. He takes the circles out of his Ninja Turtle lunchbox. "They fell off." he says belligerently. He's lying, I can tell. My eyes narrow suspiciously. "There's no way they could fall off." I'd used an entire gluestick, after all. "Well-they did." I look at them more closely. They are all torn and have the appearance of being chewed on. It must have taken him a long time to get them off. We drive in silence for a minute. "People thought I was a really bad clown with spots." he finally says, coming clean. "So I took the spots off and told them I forgot it was Halloween." A pause. "There were ten Ninja Turtles." He twists the knife. "Even Christopher was a Ninja Turtle." That one really hurts; Christopher's mom works at a crafts store. Kids are like little elephants; they never forget being humiliated by their parents. My son brings up this tale of woe, this nadir of maternal endeavor, every Halloween, and he tells it in exquisite detail, honed to perfection over the years and designed to move his audience to sympathetic tears. Do I need to tell you that he has worn any costume he wants every Halloween since that fateful day? I just kept reminding myself that there is more to good parenting than being able to wield a mean gluestick.