Boo!

There are family larks that we choose to undertake because we have an idea about how they might play out--an idea about connection and joy and spontaneity--an idea about making memories. For me--and maybe, admittedly, I'm just limited this way--the larks never play out the way I want. Somebody ends up cranky--somebody gets tired, or pops off a picky comment at her brother or his sister, and before you know it I feel like Mother from the '50s: this "I'm going to kill you" clench to the jaw behind smiling lips. Until I start hollering.

Tonight we finished homework, ran down to the store, bought a slew of candy and crayons and stickers and Play-doh, and packed up 6 plastic cauldrons with ghoulish loot--spookalicious treats--and drove around town Boo-ing the kids' friends. We do it every year--it's such a kick--pulling into driveways with the headlights out, crawling up the grass to their doors, leaving the goodies on the stoop, ringing the doorbell, and TEARING out of there before the floodlights kick on. We leave notes in the cauldrons, but don't sign them. The best thrill is watching from the bushes when the father laughs and the kids dance in circles, and you know that whatever mood they were in before you rang the doorbell, you left them in a great mood. Liam especially loves it; he has no desire to tell his friends that he was the one--the Boo Bandit. More than the sneaking up, he likes to watch families from the bushes--families being happy because of something he did. He'll make a wonderful Santa Claus someday.

Maisie's friends, alas, live in houses with fewer windows and treacherous landscaping, so it's hard to maneuver around quickly in the dark, and we can't spy on them. She knocks hard, twice, then ducks behind a tree and waits; I don't want her to risk running in the dark. Minutes pass--nobody comes to the door. She sneaks back up and knocks again--harder this time. Back to the tree. Nothing. Finally we climb back into the car, and she's disappointed: she's never even seen them open the doors and find the treats. "They come out that door to catch the bus in the morning," I remind her. "They'll see it as soon as they wake up." And so we have to reach for a different kind of satisfaction after those transactions: the pleasure of knowing they'll be happy when they find the treat--even if we don't get to witness their laughter and dancing.

It's not nearly as satisfying for us mere mortals.

When was the last time you pried open a container of Play-doh? Go get some--it smells like childhood.