Kids are such bizarre, creepy little monsters. I had one tiny gremlin ask me recently if Satan’s birthday is Halloween just like Jesus’s is Christmas. Because I am a good grownup, I said, “Sure, that’s why we collect candy. For the big birthday bash!”
The kid in question is my daughter, by the way. Probably should mention that. Her real name is Astrid but I’m not sure if she knows that because I usually address her as “girl.” As in, “Girl, put some panties on!” “Girrrrrl, who’s ready for kindergarten? Not you—where are your clothes?” Girl finds clothing restrictive and prefers to prance around the apartment au naturel. A real chip off the ol’ block. But it gets to be a problem when they’re old enough for kindergarten. I’ve tried telling her that only wild animals run around naked.
“Like wolves?” she asked.
Wolves are her favorite animal. I should’ve answered that they show up each morning to the pack in suits and ties for their morning howl. Instead I said, “No, wolves do not wear clothes.”
… Girl is now running naked around my home howling. I finally convince her to put some clothes on by reminding her that today is Satan’s birthday. (Technically it’s tomorrow, but since today is a school day we are celebrating with her class.)
Girl’s kindergarten class is commemorating the holiday by marching to the nursing home to terrorize those who are closest to death. (I have been told not to phrase it this way and that it is better to refer to them as “grandmas and grandpas.”) In order to keep an eye on Girl while she and her fellow wildlings hold the elderly hostage for candy, I have volunteered to chaperone.
I am going dressed as a Good Parent—business casual, neatly styled hair, pleasant smile and even temper, probably a PTA member. Definitely not a parent who is raising a feral Girl.
Feral Girl will go as a Wolf.
When we arrive at the school, the screams and wails alert me to the fact that everything is perfectly normal because children are all rabid meerkats. I am given a clipboard with seven names. I shepherd my little dumplings into a line for the two blocks to the nursing home.
I cannot remember the names of these seven little terrors so I try to monitor by costume: Pumpkin, Spongebob, Unicorn, Raggedy Orphan(?), Death, Spiderman, Witch, and of course Wolf, whose slavering snarls indicate she is now Werewolf.
Honestly the costumes are not great. Pumpkin is flat and deflated like the last gourd of the season. Unicorn’s horn needs some Viagra. Spiderman is the most convincing, tumbling around the sidewalk and spraying silly string as webbing. The other ducklings cry out and I have to intervene and consequently it now looks like my costume is Spaghetti. Death is utterly silent and very much a method actor. Occasionally he swings around a shiny scythe that does not look PTA-approved. I tell him if he’s not careful with that thing I am going to take it from him, and he gives me a long stare.
I point two fingers to my eyes and back at him.
Then Raggedy Orphan bites said fingers. Which is how I learn those rags actually indicate Zombie. The words that come out of my mouth do not match my Good Parent costume and all the bad little children giggle—
—And now here we are, parting the doors into the lobby where smiling old folks sit with buckets of candy, and I unleash the horde.
Within seconds, Spiderman is climbing the furniture—on brand, but I have to haul him off (“Put me down, Vulture!” he yells, and I can’t help but wonder if this is a dig at my age). Pumpkin immediately needs to pee but she’s struggling with her costume. I tell Werewolf to help her undress—my feral Girl is, after all, an expert. But Girl misinterprets my directions. I spot her dancing around outside of her costume like a peeled banana. So I plunge into that chaos like an old vulture wading into the midst of frenzying hyenas, snatch the hands of Girl and Pumpkin, and drag them to the restroom.
When I return, I find the remaining children have collected around a dozing old man in an armchair.
The six little hellions are laying candy on him like some kind of offering for Satan’s birthday. Death is at the front, trying to put quarters on his eyes.
I announce that they need to let him sleep and shoo them away like a flock of piranhas from fresh meat and then approach the old man, who lounges with his head tipped back, mouth open. Some little imp even put a gummy worm in his open mouth. What if he chokes on it? So I take the worm out and take the quarters off—
His skin is cold.
Girl tugs my arm. Complains her costume is itchy. I tell her it is time to head home. I am a model Good Parent as I shepherd all my little hobgoblins out the door, on the way telling the staff they will need to contact an ambulance and likely the funeral home. My hands are only shaking a little.
I deposit them all back at the school: Pumpkin, Spongebob, Unicorn, Zombie, Spiderman, Witch, Werewolf…
Is anyone missing?
No, the teacher informs me. All seven accounted for.
It’s only later, as I’m patting myself on the back for a challenging day of parenting and ranking all the costumes on a quadrant chart in my head from “hardest to poop in” to “most likely to be sexy if worn by Timothee Chalamet,” that I remember that there was an eighth…