December 2007

Halloween screeched through our week like an 18-wheeler swerving to miss a large animal. Sean decided Las Vegas would be much more thrilling than hauling an old man, a green slime bucket, and a skunk around the neighborhood--all greedily begging for treats. So on Monday, he slipped quietly out the back door, suitcases still swinging at his sides, claiming he had some VERY important business meetings that would take the entire week. Make no mistake, I was the lucky one this year.

I woke up early the morning of the morbid day, and strapped on my Ghostbusters backpack, poised to tackle the early morning school costume parade. With one spray foam can clutched one hand, and one green hairspray poised in the other, I was equipped to create the greatest slime bucket costume in the history of slime bucket costumes. Clay stood before me strategically placed inside a black, Rubbermaid garbage can, with a hole on each end for his head and feet. His duct taped suspenders hung over his shoulders. “Close your eyes,” I said in monotone. “Mom, I’m not sure…” But I couldn’t hear the rest because the “psssssss” from the spray can drowned out any other trivial words. “Hold your hands up!” I shouted while busily covering the entire top of the lid with foam. I giggled under my breath as I watched it expand to twice its size. Soon, the “psssssss” was drowned out by Clay’s crying, “I can’t hold my arms up any longer! I just can't...” The “nooooo” lingered on my lips in slow motion as I watched his arms droop and come to rest into the unset goop. As he lifted his long sleeve covered arms, webs of gooey, unsolidified, spray foam connected his arms to the lid of the garbage can. I frantically turned the can to the side where I read, “Caution: Always wear gloves, takes 10 minutes to set, and turpentine needed for clean up. I turned and said dammit so soft, only the ground and me could hear it. I whirled around and looked at him so long and in so many different ways, I thought it might actually change what I was seeing. I checked my watch. Ten minutes until the costume parade. I stripped him naked, slammed on a clean shirt and gloves and sprayed the foam all over again. This time the garbage can was on the ground--without Clay inside. I waited as long as I could possibly wait, approximately 500 jumping jacks later, and careened two miles down the road to the elementary school just in time for the big show. Another close one for the memory books.

As Thanksgiving draws near we gobble with the anticipation of spending three days together, shoveling down more calories than a one-ton dump truck can haul, and grimacing as the kids run around Blake & Kate’s table in dizzying pursuit of the chosen one holding the wishbone. Our expectations aren’t unrealistic; we just hope our boys remember to put their clothes back on after their showers, and to close the bathroom door before unloading their holiday delights. If not, you can’t tell me you haven’t been cautioned not to look.

Here's to happy holidays!