Halloween and I have a difficult past. I lived next door to a church growing up. We were regularly subjected to smashed pumpkins, raw eggs, and sometimes toilet paper.
The year I was seven was the last year I was allowed to Trick or Treat. After that, we didn’t “celebrate” Halloween anymore. We would close all our blinds and hunker down that night. We watched old musicals and ate candy. It became a tradition, and two other families joined us. We’d rotate houses, eventually ending up at the house of the family who lived furthest out in the country, and therefore got the fewest Trick-or-Treaters.
I grew up and had kids. I didn’t think much about Halloween, and my kids were too little to care.
Except One was in Pre-K at a Catholic school. And they did all kinds of seasonal activities. At the time, I was kind of shocked. Why were Christians celebrating Halloween? By then, I thought we didn’t. Among Evangelicals, it had kind of become a thing.
My kid learned what vampires were from that school, and I was pissed. I remember having an uncomfortable conversation with his teacher about it.
We started our own tradition of take-out pizza by candlelight on Halloween. I would watch the Trick-or-Treaters go by. There were lights on up and down the block. It was the only night most of our neighbors came out and talked to each other. I found myself wondering why we were staying out of it.
This is me at 13, just before this whole saga began.
Endocrinology and I first got to know each other when I was 13. When I hit puberty, my thyroid went completely nuts. While I ate loads of food, I remained a featherweight and my period started, then stopped. My eyes started to bug a little, a classic sign of hyperthyroidism, and on a visit to my grandma’s house that summer, she realized something was off and suggested my parents take me to the doctor.
This began a really difficult phase of my life.
I saw Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, by Elizabeth Gilbert, featured on the shelves near the checkout counter of our library, the literary equivalent of the candy that lines the checkout aisles of the supermarket. I will be honest – the beautiful cover is what first pulled me in, and after I read a few pages, I was interested enough in the content to check it out.
When I found it, I was in the thick of marriage stuff. I’ve found that for most things self care-related, I struggle to do things just for me if there is no other person who will directly benefit (although that is False Thinking, because when I take good care of myself, there are always 8 other people who will benefit from my better state of mind and body.)
I was reading relationship and marriage books, which was self care, but also marriage care, but I couldn’t make myself read Big Magic, which would have just been for me. Not me and the Chaplain, not me and the kids. I was a little afraid it would inspire me to do or make something, which would further use time I didn’t feel I had.
Where do I start with this kid?
Four was my first rainbow baby, coming after two miscarriages. He was the first kid we had to “try” for. He was born with not one, but TWO nuchal hands.
This is a true middle child, with three older sibs, and three younger ones. He has proven to be a teammate, a friend, and a thoughtful comrade. He was One’s first brother after two sisters.
When I was trying to help him scrape out a condiment bottle one recent afternoon to get the rest, he stopped me. He didn’t want to take it all and leave none for his sister.
He moves seamlessly between the older kids and the younger ones. He learned how to ride a bike at age four with encouragement and help from his older sibs. So far, he’s the only kid who’s taking after the Chaplain and learning to play the piano.
This sweet boy is always “hummy” as he used to say, learning how to read, and endlessly thoughtful and diligent. He wears two hairbands on his wrist because one time in his hip hop class last year, his teacher needed a hairband and didn’t have one, and he wanted to be prepared if that ever happened again. He was wearing hairbands on his wrist for months before I found out the reason behind them. It reminded me of this story.
If you’re wondering what a Saga Boy is, according to the Urban Dictionary, it’s “A guy who likes to dress up nice. ” It’s a Tobagonian turn of phrase. In American English, I’m not aware of any words that describe a guy who is a classy dresser without having any negative implications (I kept coming up with “dandy,” which is definitely NOT Four. “Dapper” didn’t seem quite right, either.) The way my sister-in-law described it when she told me, a saga boy is a guy who always looks nice and dresses well no matter where he’s going. And while Four has his little boy moments with camo and t-shirts with sports slogans, he is the guy who can generally be relied upon to look good when we are going somewhere, with no direction from me. He has a great sense of style. And the true joy he gets from hanging out with his family makes his face shine and completes the look.
These characteristics – his style, his kind heart and professional sibling status, and his bottomless stomach – are unique parts of him that make him such a precious soul. We love him and are privileged to have him in our brood. Happy Birthday, Young Man.
One evening not too long ago, we did our twice weekly walk at the riverside bike/hike trail. It’s something we’ve been doing for a couple of months now. Our four Littles are used to it, even if they don’t always enjoy every moment. We’ve cobbled together a combination of scooters and strollers, snacks and water bottles, wet wipes and even a first aid kit. It works for us most days.
Even with all the supplies we bring, that there are always a few places on the walk when someone isn’t happy. Everyone has their moments, but usually, it is Six. He doesn’t like any situation where he isn’t in control, and he knows if he slows way down or refuses to continue, we have no choice but to either wait for him or try to cajole him into some alternative – whether it’s walking a little further, going a little faster, riding in a stroller for a bit, or taking a piggyback ride.
This particular time, he was at it again. We were very near the parking area after an especially long walk – we’d gone further down the trail than we ever had before, and all the kids were tired.
Six was fed up with walking and stopped off on the side of the trail and refused to go any further. If we weren’t in sight of the end of the trail, we would be around the next corner. Two bikers loaded down with gear bore down the path, riding side by side. One of them spoke loudly as he approached us where we walked, a hundred feet or so in front of Six on the trail.
