Get Your Creative Costume on!

Some days I am especially grateful to have children.

Halloween is one of those days. I live in an area of the country where many people do not celebrate, mostly for religious reasons.

I am not one of those people.

It's not the candy, or the horror flicks on television. It's the chance to dress up. I LOVE dressing up. It is a way to fit my love of stories into my daily life, along with my fascination with costuming (engendered in my theatre participation), my love of sewing, and my need for imaginative play all together.

Thankfully, it's my year to take the kids trick-or-treating. I dress up either way (even when I hand out candy), but it's infinitely more fun when I get to walk around from door to door, ostensibly to "monitor" my kids as they do the same, only with pumpkin pails to collect their candy. (The candy doesn't interest me in the least… okay, maybe a little, but only the Almond Joys and Bit-o-Honeys).

So we're starting school as soon as possible this morning, and then prepping splendidly for a night of walking around in character. I'll update this post later today with a picture of all of us!

Not Dead

I'm sure you thought I was. Or you forgot I had ever been alive.

But any dark thoughts you had mulling over my demise are mere fantasy. I'm alive, I had a great summer off, and I have plans for this year.

One plan, of course, is to keep blogging next summer, and not drop off the face of the earth again. But next summer is a long way off, and my focus is on the now.

So stay tuned. Much news will be coming your way, and the revamping I've done of my blog so far is only the beginning. I hope to catch up with all of you on your own blogs, so if you've missed me and want me to visit super soon, just leave me a nagging message below.

Would You Like to Meet my (Imaginary) Friend?

My son, as some of you know, is best described as "precocious." In a single day my five-year-old can fill his shoes with mud, get called into the principal's office, and complete an adult word search, including terms like "admirer," pronouncing them correctly even if doesn't have a clue what they mean.

But that isn't enough. He also has an imaginary friend named Tres.

I met Tres at least two years ago. Brandon walked out the front door, shut it, and rang the doorbell. Now, this had already been his usual activity for as long as he could turn a doorknob, but since he never left the front porch, I let him do it.

But this time, he didn't ring the doorbell incessantly. Just one polite ring. I waited, but he didn't enter again. Finally, curiosity pulled me to the door, and I opened it. Brandon stood there, waiting. "Hi."

"Hi," I answered.

"I've come for a visit."

"Oh, you have, have you?" What on earth did my son mean?

"Yes. I'm Brandon's friend. My name is T-R-E-S."

"Tres?"

"Yeah."

Seems Tres, who looked just like Brandon, was a 16-year-old with a driver's license. He'd dropped Brandon off at school, and then had come to play. And thus began our long journey with a new, dwarfed fully employed 16-year-old.

It turns out Tres is quite a wonder. He very willingly cleans Brandon's room, does Brandon's chores, and even plays piano in Brandon's stead. But woe betide you if you call him Brandon...

Tres is also magic. He can talk to his mother without calling her on the telephone (he won't give me her number so that I can call her, either), and he manages all sorts of other amazing feats. This summer he even died. We were camping down near Eureka, California, and as we walked through an extremely cool cemetery in Ferndale, Brandon showed me the very grave where the dead Tres had been laid to rest.

"But it says 'Emma Davis.' Says she was married to this guy John."

"No, that's wrong. You just aren't reading it right. He's there."

"How did he die?"

My son shrugged. "I don't remember."

Astonishingly, Tres showed up at our camper not two days later.

"I thought you were dead."

Tres wrinkled his nose. "No."

"Really? You're alive?"

Again the wrinkle. "Yes. I look alive, don't I?"

I had to admit he did.

Just this last Thursday Tres came over for a sleepover. He cleaned Brandon's room, did his homework, and even gave Brandon's dad a hug so that he wouldn't miss Brandon to terribly. He unloaded the dishwasher, asking me where to put pans, plates, and everything else (he didn't remember where they went). Then, the next morning, Tres buttered himself an English muffin and took off for the bus, letting Brandon return just in time to be driven to school.

I wonder how much longer Tres is going to stick around. Personally, when he stops coming, I'll really miss him. He's a good boy.

It's a Bird, It's a Plane! No, it's Kind Boy!

Why is it, with all of the academic and other challenges I've surmounted, my children end up being the greatest challenge of them all?

I came home ready to grade last night, ready to tear into around 50 essays. Too bad I checked my voicemail first. 

It was my son's principal, calling FIVE MINUTES AFTER SCHOOL STARTED to let me know that my son, my beautiful, bright 5-year-old son, had just mooned another boy on the bus. As the principal had ever so gently put it, my son dropped trow "down to the skin." Yes, my beloved son had done what no one in my family has ever done: shown his bare naked rump to various grades of complete strangers. 

Why? I wasn't to find that out when he came home, for he pulled the classic Bill Cosby rendition of "I don't know" (Brain Damage!). Of course, by then his teacher had e-mailed me to let me know his whole day had been rough, he'd called people names, said he "hated" some other kid in class, and further slips in his bag confirmed he had even carried his ugliness to the playground. 

I spoke to him, tearing up from embarrassment, telling him I was very disappointed, and he laughed and said I was faking. It was only after I left the room in tears that he began to cry himself. 

My husband called a friend of ours--a cop--and since that was exactly what my son wants to be when he grows up, the officer talked to my little hoodlum seriously, telling him doing stupid things like that would pretty much prevent him from being a cop. My son was respectful enough, the cop said, to prevent him from going to jail this time.

But all the threats, I sensed, were not going to work. I am beginning to realize that my five-year-old son is simply too smart for them, that he sees through B.S. the way I can see through the holes in an old pair of underwear. The key wasn't to scare him, it was to make being good FUN. 

Must think, think, think...

When he woke up this morning, I had a white undershirt waiting for him, to wear under his clothing (so that he could be in disguise). He would be Kind Boy, with a capital K, and his job as a superhero--with no superhero powers, he knowingly told his father--was to be kind to everybody. He would face the ugly remarks of classmates with silence and would resist his desire to say mean things, for, under his mild-mannered alter-ego, he was truly Kind Boy, spreading kindness wherever he went. 

So, what happened? He came home with a stellar report for the day, and he was even recognized with a sticker for his behavior three times. 

Of course, when he decides to go off the deep end, I'll have to think of something else... but for now, I'm glad to know something I've tried actually works (even if only for a day).

Mini-Vacation

I know, it's Thursday. You have work. You have family to deal with. The kids aren't in school, and they are driving you nuts. But just sit back for a moment and close your eyes. Forget all your cares, forget the laundry (oops--you probably had forgotten about the laundry! Sorry!), forget all your obligations. Where do you really want to be? Can you put yourself there? Just for a moment? Can you have a mini-staycation for a moment?

Try it.

I'm trying it out right now. I'm in a tiny room filled with books and aged wood (just take a whiff), and the softest recliner is beckoning to me. My laptop sits there on the arm, also beckoning. Classical music drifts through the quaking aspens outside the open window, making their leaves sparkle as they flutter. I sit down, and the breeze slips around me. I start to write, with only the wind and leaves and soft music and smells of books and wood to remind me I'm not adrift in the clouds themselves. No kids, no pets, no noise but these... 

Okay, five minutes is up. Got to go make waffles for the kids. But it was nice. 

And now it's your turn. Spend five minutes, think it up, and write it down.