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.