My mom sewed. I was her living mannequin, not to mention pincushion. When I became a competitive baton twirler, she sewed all my costumes. We spent hours at Raymond’s Fabric Store, selecting soft velvets and stretch fabrics, and perusing Simplicity patterns. We chose elaborate rhinestones and cabochons, beaded and lace appliques, braided trim and metallic twisted cord. Those costumes represent so much love and hard work that, over forty-five years later, I still have my treasured favorites.
Mom made some of my regular clothes, too, but the highlight of her year was Halloween. While my classmates put on their flimsy K-mart costumes-in-a-box and chintzy masks, I’d proudly don the beaded headband and moccasins of my hand-sewn faux animal skin Pocahontas costume. Or, my snuggly gray mouse costume, complete with pink belly, matching mittens, and a long tail that forced others to get out of my way. While I trick-or-treated in warm comfort in late-October New Jersey, my friends shivered under thin plastic while trying to breathe through their Wonder Woman masks. I wore those works of art with joy and a dash of hubris.
When I became a parent, I wanted to follow in my mother’s footsteps – scratch that. I felt compelled to live up to her example. No. That’s not it either. The truth is, I wanted to make bigger and more elaborate Halloween costumes than even my mother had produced. My son, Avery, was the lucky first recipient of my determination, competitiveness, and maternal love. He was a plump pumpkin with an orange hat and green stem perched above his cherubic face. If you looked closely, you could see several blood stains that erased any doubt that it was homemade. The next year, he was a clown, with a shimmery multi-colored outfit and matching pointed hat.
When my daughter came along, it seemed prudent for her to wear her brother’s hand-me-down costumes until she could put in a request for her own look. At four, she made an adorable bunny.
At five, when I suggested recycling a 1950s style sockhop outfit, complete with a handmade poodle skirt, that she had worn to a birthday party, she stomped her stubborn foot and demanded to be a fairy. Well, if Tara wanted to be a fairy, Tara was going to be the most elaborate and beautiful fairy our town had ever seen. There was a delicate pink fleece involved. And, some silver thread infused organza in multi-colored pastels. I think there may have been some stiff tulle, too, probably to keep the skirt just so. I made wings, shaping the wire and covering them in that same organza. For weeks, I spent late nights cutting, scrapping, recutting. One morning, I woke up to find my face pressed into a pair of scissors and my back sore from sleeping bent over my work table. I mastered the zig-zag stitch and the multi-stitch zig-zag. I learned to install a zipper. I did fittings on my tiny model, taxing her patience with my perfectionism. The entire month of October was lost in the frenzy of making my baby girl happy. Thankfully, that was the year my son’s obsession with Star Wars began, so he insisted on being Anakin, a costume he found himself on one of our frequent shopping trips.
The final week before Halloween of 1999, I was applying delicate crystals until well after midnight and fashioning a sparkly headpiece to top my little fairy’s head. By the time Halloween finally arrived, I was exhausted and achy but, oh, had I produced a masterpiece! I could barely wait until the time to present my daughter with her heart’s desire. My mother arrived with her camera to document my success. First, I dressed Avery. Then, I applied sparkly powder to Tara’s face and styled her hair in bouncy, corkscrew curls. At last, I pulled the fairy costume from hiding in the closet and unveiled it in all its splendor.
Tara gasped as her hazel eyes grew wide; my heart filled with excitement. Her mouth dropped open as she took in that showstopper. At last, she exclaimed, “I’m not wearing that!” and snapped her face away from having to look at it.
My heart stopped, then dropped to my stomach. Surely, I had misunderstood. “What?” I wheezed.
“I. AM. NOT. WEARING…THAT!”
I covered my eyes with my hands. My hands that sported several Bandaids on fingers that had cut, stitched, and decorated until they were covered in lacerations and sores. I drew a long breath, holding back the fatigue and disappointment until I regained a measure of control. Looking up at my mother, I moaned, “What do I do now?”
Mom looked at my grief-stricken face, then turned to her pouting granddaughter. She picked up the fairy costume and said, “Go get yourself ready. I’ll get her dressed. Because, young lady,” she directed at my little brat, “you are wearing this!”
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. My husband Guy came home and got himself dressed in a red flapper dress and long, brunette wig. I applied prosthetic skin and heavy make-up, a gray wig, baggy pantyhose, and granny shoes. When we convened as a group for Mom to take pictures, Avery was confident and brave as Anakin. Tara, with tear stains streaking her face powder but looking deliciously adorable, laughed when she saw her father oddly resembling his older sister. But, when I entered the room, bent over a wooden cane, she screamed in terror. Just about at that time, Mom snapped the picture that would go on to grace our Christmas card that year.
By the time next Halloween approached and the topic of costumes came up, I was still smarting from the whole fairy fiasco. I was inclined to throw in the creativity towel, but Guy offered to pick up the mantle. While my productions had leaned toward the intricate and ornate, Guy’s handiwork embraced one-of-a-kind, enormous scale construction. There wasn’t a chance that my kids would run into anyone who could compete with Soap-on-a-Rope, Mr. Potato Head, or Fuzzy Dice. And, never again, did Tara turn her nose up at one of her homemade Halloween costumes.