Machine

"All I want for Christmas is an airsoft rifle and an iTouch," said my 10-next-week son, Sebastian.

"Well, you'll be disappointed, then."

"How do you know that? How do you know what Santa will give me?" He said, voice laced with cynicism.

"I just know. And I will make it known. That assault-weapon-looking guns are not, nor will they ever be, welcome in this house."

Silence. Maybe tense. But quiet, as Sebastian tries to find a come-back, or, no doubt, a defense for his wishes.

Patrick, 5-years-old-next-week joins the conversation. Softly.

"What I would like to ask Santa for? .... Is a machine. ....A machine that could make you one or two. Whenever you went in it. Like a baby.

I would like that."

"oh?"

"Because I would like very much for you to carry me like that again."

...

"Oh, pPod. That would be nice."

...

"Yeah," he said, wistfully, "it really would."

(We lived in Florida. There was a hurricane. He bathed in pool water. In a bucket. It was chilly. He was, and is, unflappable.)

Grateful

Agatha and I led our Sunday school class this week in an exercise about gratitude. We first talked through prayer types again: intercession, contrition, gratitude - then zeroed in on gratitude. Being the Sunday before Thanksgiving, the progression was organic.

To clarify, I am woefully unqualified to teach Sunday school. There are flaws in my religious views, holes in my 'wisdom' and practice.

I have problems with the literal nature of our curriculum. I greet Old Testament stories with skepticism. When teaching that Adam and Eve's Cain and Seth go on to populate the world... presumably with the help of "Mrs. Cain and Mrs. Seth-" I want to know who the women were. Where they came from.

In story after story here is violence and trickery and pettiness with catastrophic consequences - and often rewards. And God is very direct in His communications with the People.

I struggle with it - existing, as I do, in a world where God is far more vague - even in his omnipresence.

I am not good with prayers of intercession. I can't quite give myself over into believing the magic fairy dust element of it - the conceit that I get something, or something is all better, because I am a Good Christian, and I asked - fervently, with an open heart. I know too many better Christians with real problems - sickness, death, crisis, debt.

So I ask God to help give me more faith, or patience, or the ability to observe and find the Good in Bad. I ask for strength, for shoring up. And for more of that patience.

I do OK with penance. I can always admit to a screw-up. And I collect them. Though this Sunday, as we talked through this idea of prayer with the four kids that showed up, I tripped a little on "penance," stopped myself from giving a concrete example.

My son wasn't in class. He got left at home after an epic battle with me that resulted with him, in his room, while others went to church. The bad part was what came before, when I let him push all my buttons - and good robot that I am - I short-circuited in just the way intended. I spent time on penance after that one.

Contrition fuels itself, if you fancy yourself a prayer, and have a conscience.

I have my own religious tenets - things I hold myself to - that give me ample opportunity to fail in small ways, or to fail outright in larger ways.

My grandfather was a farmer. He worked hard, and he was quiet, and humble and Competent in all things. I never knew where he stood with Catholicism specifically, but he went to church every Sunday. He only went to communion when he had gone to confession. Twice a year, I believe. I could never imagine what Grandpa possibly had to confess. And I would try to imagine.

Away from the natural rhythms of the farm, my sins are many. In modern suburbia, there are no consequences for life sloppily lead - for laziness, for unpreparedness, for not reading the seasons or canning when the vegetables are fresh. This is the basis for my guilt, for the religion in my head, for the touchy relationship I have with God, for my awareness of how much I do wrong.

Things for which I kick myself regularly for my own hypocritical approach: I am sure that God would prefer I never stay inside on a sunny day, don't waste food, that I am active in my role as shepherd of the earth, avoid sinful meat not raised humanely, never scream at people smaller than me, don't fritter away time, maximize my gifts. Care for those who have less. Stay aware of injustice in the world. When I fail, I can't quite ask Grandpa to intercede on my behalf - because they are not mistakes he would have made.

And I willfully forget, sometimes, to seek absolution for these daily failings.

But gratitude...that one I can do.

My default is, generally, contentment. Hormone-laced-beef-eating, shouting, time-wasting contentment. I look around and I notice: I am well fed. I have a roof. I have beautiful, healthy, fascinating children. I genuinely love and enjoy my husband. I have extended family and far-flung friends and am estranged from no one. I have a car that runs, and two crazy cats. I can read and I can write. I catch my breath looking out at a great view or looking deeply into the intricacies of a single, perfect fall leaf. I know, intellectually, that from bad eventually comes good, and by strokes of luck in timing, geography and birth, no real bad has ever befallen me. And I am grateful for that, too. For the work of my grandfather that got us all to here.

And on Sunday, I sit in the pew and I try to keep children (those I bring) still and relatively engaged. I breathe deep and I tune in and out of the homily. I sing the hymns. And I give thanks. And I find, invariably, I have lots and lots of thanks to give. And this, in itself, is a blessing.

Epilogue

The Zombie didn't really believe I was going to pull it off, but had a football game to attend Friday night, so wasn't sticking around to find out.

I went, with the soon-to-be-witch and the erstwhile cowboy, to that final Walmart run (*shudder*) and the Junior League Thrift Store remarkably sturdy grunge-wear run. The Zombie rolled in the mud and destroyed, enthusiastically, the circa 1992 flannel shirt and gray cords that were just glad to be put back in circulation in any capacity.

The Zombie had to be coached to stay off the couch at the friend's who was kind enough to host football -pizza - cocktails before. The Zombie's mud, while dry, was not entirely embedded. Nor was the Zombie's face, for that matter.

The Witch's tutu was more sheer than we counted on, and got a little tangly. But went well with striped tights purchased years earlier for her brother's alien costume (it was an ill-considered detail, saved for later. Used here.) The shoes aren't showing, but are silver glitter flats. She is the Wicked Witch of the West re-imagined. Not, as her uncle suggested, Mae West.

pPod was a pirate all day at school on Friday, and in the afternoon on Saturday, and changed into cowboy for Saturday night. His boots came. And were promptly put on the wrong feet. By me. And fixed. By a neighbor (who assumed he had done it himself - and found it very funny that, in fact, he had not. She does not - it should be noted - have children.) He was coached not to point the capgun at anyone - including himself, after he and Sebastian answered the door for a very shy butterfly (ghoul, plus little brother with gun in his ear. She will be no less shy next year, we can assume.)

There was football, there were friends, and there was loads and loads of candy. Pretty much perfect in every way that could matter.

Halloween

That's my brother.

Left to right: A vampire, natch. A ghostly ninja thing with a circle around one eye, natch. A menacing candle, natch. A fisherman. A possibly insane and decidedly girly clown. And a pirate. In the original Puffy Shirt.

An ad exec and dashingly handsome father of three, Halloween was once his best outlet for creative expression. I think reader, you will agree, he rocked it.

Giggling forth out of our house, empty pillow cases in hand, eyes twinkling and fingers itching for loot... in my house, we follow the tradition of my family of origin.

I have had a pirate, a fairy princess, Frankenstein, a hula girl, and Paddington. I sewed mylar, horribly unsuccessfully, for an alien tunic. I had a self-unravelling mummy in tea-died old sheets torn into strips, a dinosaur princess (we were hurricane refugees! I grabbed my son's old dino costume and a tiara before we fled north for water and electricity...), and a high-concept red crab.

I wait longer than I should, survey the available odds and ends, and create. From the costume bin in the garage: packed to the brim with Salvation Army finds. (My sister Lisa's best Christmas gift for my Littles, years ago.) I make runs for bits from party stores, from Walmart. Foam core is often involved. Glitter.

We have never had a recognizable character. They each asked maybe once - and then it didn't come up again. Likely due to my vehement response. And some years, these decidedly home-made costumes often cost far more than their $15 Walmart alternatives.

I do this (and yes, this breed of insanity is all mine. The Littles would be fine with store bought. And the Big One would not mind opting out of the extra drama)...partly, I think, because it adds to a 'colorful' childhood to walk through someone else's neighborhood in longjohns while yards of old sheets trail behind you. Partly, too, for the 'fun' of it - the transformation of near-useless bits into something that almost makes sense. Largely, I have to admit, for the people opening doors and exclaiming with incredulity, "you MADE this??" (Not that it isn't obvious. It is.)

But mostly, I think, in homage to Mom. A celebration of creativity, of adaptability, of a little magic. It's because I like messing with face paints, too. And I like the fact that we have no idea what this stuff will look like until it's done.

In my memory, Mom (who sews beautifully) made brilliant and complex hand-sewn creations. Every year is like it was in 1973, when abandoned Mom still had something to prove. We were Little Red Riding Hood, and we won the town contest. I was Little Red, my sister was the Big Bad Wolf (in a saucy leotard with a big plush tail and earred hood), my brother was the Woodcutter, and my other sister was the Forest. (A tree. Why, you might ask, was she not the Grandmother? She's a chronic over-achiever. She had a vision. And she liked trees, a lot. Or at least that's my guess about how it went. But it's equally possible that we were just weird enough that 'Grandma' didn't even occur to her.)

The reality was somewhat less cohesive. Mom encouraged us to make our own costumes. She would help, and resources were limited. But what we wanted to be, we could be. She encouraged, she assisted - but she didn't drive the process. And flat-felled seams were not involved.

There was the year that Tom was a candle, and Terry a Television Set. Made from a box. With a message on the screen that said something like "Please give to my UNICEF box so that children who have no Halloween can also share in our Good Fortune." (Tree sister, of course.) Whatever Lisa and I were, we paled in comparison. I mean, a candle and a purely altruistic TV set?

Over the years, the four of us headed out. We were clowns and gypsies and every animal that could be made with a stocking mask, a leotard, and a tail. One year, I wore a long dress and a "real" tiara borrowed from my friend who was a little pageant star. She reminded me that with my brown hair I wouldn't be convincing (she had blond curls), but I still felt almost pretty for the whole night.

There is magic in all of it. And while I know I am making work, inventing hassle, and creating a wee bit of unnecessary strife... we're doing it again this year. There will be a witch of sorts, in a tutu. A cowboy, with eBay boots we're hoping come in time. There will be a zombie, though I have made clear that there will be no visible evidence of brain-snacking.

We will all be a little frantic. Maybe more than a little. Tonight I will assemble costumes and make that last Walmart run. And there will be fun. Hard won. The best kind.

And next year? I may break down...

...and let Sebastian be a candle.