What's Your Favorite Halloween Memory?

Do you even like All Saints' Eve?

Funny story. My twins were born at 27 weeks gestation, we didn’t know if they were going to live and I almost died in childbirth. No, that’s not the funny part. I just wanted to break the ice before launching into that tough information.

For the first three years of Dylan and Samantha’s lives, California state offered OT services. A lovely Occupational Therapist came to our home every month to check Dylan and Samantha’s muscle tone, reflexes and developmental milestones. Because our kids were born 3 months early, they were given an “adjusted” age. When they were 6 months old, they should have been on target for a 3-month-old. Doctors concluded that by the time a preemie is 3 years old they should be “caught up” to their actual age. Meanwhile, some 40 year olds still act like teenagers.

By 2 ½, our kids were doing great. They were reaching their milestones and I enrolled them in a French preschool. Facing developmental delays, walking and talking late… why not throw another language into the mix that we didn’t speak at home? In retrospect, I wanted normalcy. I had read that THE window for kids to learn another language was between 0-10 years. I always wished I bilingual. Typically, moms always want to give their kids what they never had. Plus, Jeffrey grew up with a mom who yelled at him in French. He was fluent in disciplining in a Romance language.

But Dylan wasn’t running

Samantha was a little sporty girl. She bolted like Dash in The Incredibles. I’d put her down and she’d take off before you could say, “Wait for m--.”

Dylan wasn’t running. At all. Ever. Not even for cake. (Marie Antoinette’s reign would not have been a good era for Dylan.)

Jeffrey and I worried that either it was a preemie leftover thing, or, we joked that because Dylan’s head was so big he was a scientist who adhered to the Edison rule, “The chief function of the body is to carry the brain around.” Why run?

I asked the preschool teacher to let me know if she witnessed Dylan running—ever.

“No, he does not run, il ne court pas,” she said. “Ever. Not even for cake.”

Halloween

This would be the first Halloween the kids would be cognizant of. Last year, like every other proud parent, Jeffrey and I dressed up our babies in costumes, buckled them into their double stroller and walked around the neighborhood, knocking on doors, asking for candy. In retrospect, I ask you, who was that candy REALLY for? 18-month-olds don’t consume candy. We probably tossed the Almond Joys and gobbled up the Hershey’s anything. Babies at Halloween is really for the parents to show off how scrumptious their kids look as a Lady bug, or the Hulk. We may as well have dressed up our dog as a Mail Delivery Carrier and asked for free biscuits.

We wanted to teach Dylan and Samantha independence, at 2 ½! (what was I thinking?) so we imparted the ground rules.

“Daddy and I will wait by the curb. You walk up to the front door, ring the bell and when someone answers you say, ‘Trick or treat’ and hold out your bucket.”

Dylan wasn’t the best listener back then. He was the kid observing the parents in the audience, even shouting, “Hi mom!” while the other kids sang the Turkey Song at the Thanksgiving concert.

Samantha/Dash zoomed to the front door before we could let her know what was to come next. Dylan lumbered behind. By the time he reached the door, the homeowner was already dropping candy into Samantha’s plastic pumpkin bucket.

“And here’s one for you too, Superman,” the homeowner said to Dylan. He was thrilled with the mini-Snicker’s bar, plopped down on the front stair, and started to unwrap it for consumption.

“Dylan, we’ve got more houses to cover,” said Jeffrey.

I could see the wheels spinning in Dylan’s big head but his expression showed a lackadaisical confusion. Again, he followed Samantha, trudging along, not quite grasping this Halloween tradition, the candy “juice” drooling down the sides of his mouth.

Second house. Candy. Third house. Candy.

It suddenly clicked with Dylan. With every new house, he got a candy bar. He bolted to the fourth house, charging ahead of Samantha to the next address. Dash was dust in the Dylan dirt.

“He can run,” I said.

“He sure can,” said Jeffrey. “Nothing like a little motivation.”

Dylan as Batman (lt), Samantha the Princess Witch (rt) before “the run.” At 27, Dylan still doesn’t eat cake.

**About 5 years later, Dylan discovered red meat. We were at an all-you-can-eat buffet in New Hampshire. He ate four helpings of prime rib.**

(Today’s question comes from a monthly lady’s group I attend here in WA. We introduce ourselves every week and the “leader” has us answer a question usually having to do with that month’s holiday. It’s a great way to get to know the other gals in the group. Hi Cyndi and Steve.)

I love getting to know you. Answer these questions or let me know what’s what what what…

1. Your favorite Halloween memory?

2. If you don’t have one, what’s a favorite holiday memory?

3. Do you eat cake?

4. Halloween night-- Is there a time in life when you stop buying 40 packages of candy, turn off all the lights, have a microwaved dinner with your bestie, partner, pooch and ignore the door bell?