I don't get the appeal of candy corn.

But I do love Halloween. I have several vivid memories of bolting from the school bus into the house to find my mother scurrying about gathering all our old clothes, handkerchiefs and work boots. We’d be giddy with anticipation of stuffing our shirts with pillowcases, dirtying up our cheeks with black eye liner and fastening our suspenders in place to hold up our father’s plaid work shirts. My mother had a passionate way about her. A way that made anything we did as a family joyful. I never imagined dressing as a hobo could be so magical.

My children settled on Harry Potter and Hermione Granger as their assumed characters this year. Easy peasy. A couple black capes, two wands created from sticks and paint, two $3 plastic brooms, a pair of altered turtle necks, one carefully drawn scar, a fluffy hairdo and voila! One enormously convincing wizard and an enthusiastic witch. Their capes needed hemming, and both turtlenecks required the customary H (for Hogwarts, of course) to be sewn on the upper left chest. “Pick your fabrics and Mama will sew your H’s on for you. Don’t fret over the length of your adult-sized capes; Mama will hem them shorten the length with scissors. Yes, I know exactly how to draw the perfect scar and I can work wonders with a curling iron and gel. I am, after all, a teen from the early 90’s.” In the two hours before our party, I managed to shorten two capes to a much more acceptable, although miserably lopsided, length. I snipped two perfectly straight H’s, yet somehow sewed them on with the flair of a four year old. They were actually N’s, or if you squinted just right, K’s. Nonetheless my grateful kids squealed with rampant gratitude as they took flight on their brooms. They ran their fingers over their official school uniforms, wrapped themselves in their uneven black cloaks and pointed their wands at each other with solemn gazes. It’s on.

Expecto Patronum!

Confundus!

Avada Kedavra! (Even I gasped when my Girl barked that one. Save it for when you’re in real trouble child. Any experienced witch will tell you the same.)

Mama had made their costumes. Or so they thought. Did it really matter? Will it ever matter that I’m not the craftiest of mothers and how old will they be until they realize it?

When will good enough stop being good enough, and when will I be forced to face triumphing over that dictionary sized sewing machine manual?

I’ll just relish in these days when baby doll blankets and teddy bear shirts bestow upon me the reputation of The World’s Best Sewer Ever.

The leaves have fallen.

They lay strewn across my driveway, dancing to the rhythm of the northern winds that lead the way. The flower beds are wilted and soggy with rot. The contrast of a grey hill on the horizon and the frosty ground below leaves me waxing lustful for green. I curl my toes inside my soft sherpa boots and slide my hands into fleecy gloves. The last reminders of autumn are the shriveled pumpkins that lean pitifully against the bales of hay and brittle corn stalks.

This is the season in between dying and sleep.

I miss my friends.

An eternity
To reach my destination
Mapquest got it wrong

Upon arrival
Nervous and apprehensive
I soon felt at ease

Pumping beefy milk
Conversation and good wine
No guacamole

Setting the timer
Huddle together and smile
Are those boobies?

No power just wax
Warmth from my fourth glass
Freedom to be me

Sisters all along
Long awaited embraces
Laughing ‘till I choke

Can never go back
To the way it was before
Pieces of me gone

Note to self

Murphy's Law does indeed apply to the duration of naptime and a freshly painted set of Manhattan Red fingernails.

I've got a honkin' entry divulging the joys of creating halloween gingerbread houses on the tip of my cerebellum, just reshuffling the words and photoshopping out the black vortexes of death and sleeplessness that should be my eyes.