By Heather Davis (Storm/Family/Holidays)
It was only a matter of time before my kids outgrew me for Halloween. I much preferred when they were little and I got to select their commercialize costumes of teddy bears and cowboys. I actually enjoyed walking the neighborhood with them and swiping their chocolate candies, especially the ones with nuts.
When Tera was six years old, she politely asked me to not eat the candy bars with the nuts because she actually liked them. I knew my trick-or-treating days were numbered.
Several witch costumes, a hobo, a poodle-skirted zombie and a questionable dance-hall girl later, Tera not-so-politely screamed at me to quit stealing her nutty bars and I knew my trick-or-treating days were over.
And with one invitation to a boy-girl costume party invitation, I was sentenced to sitting at home with my husband passing out the nutty bars to all the lucky mommas whose babies were still young enough to let them sneak the good stuff.
That Halloween, Tera was dressed as Daisy Duke. I didn’t know this would be her costume until her ride honked out front and she dashed from the house out into the pouring rain saying she’d be home by midnight. I yelled a frantic “Love you”. All evening long, I told myself she hollered back that she loved me too and I just hadn’t heard it over the rain pounding on the roof and the slasher movie my son was watching.
A late October storm brings with it wind that howls like the werewolves featured in stories around bonfires all over the countryside. It also brings very few trick-or-treaters to our door, so I got to eat more than my fair share of nutty bars.
It was at 11:30 that I had a deep, sinking feeling in my gut that Tera hadn’t really said “Love You” back to me as I had imagined, and I wanted now more than anything to hear her voice. Trevor’s phone beeped and I jumped. After checking the message, he said Tera wanted him to come pick her up and he bolted from the house. “Love you” I hollered and, as if he knew where my mind had been all night, he returned to peck my cheek and mumble, “Love you too.”
At 11:45, my gut feeling was that my Daisy-duked baby needed her momma. I called Trevor’s phone. No answer. I called Tera’s phone – straight to voice mail. I asked my husband if we should go find them. He woke from his recliner-induced snooze to tell me that they weren’t late yet. I asked him why in the world we hadn’t installed a GPS finder on the car so we could keep tabs on them at all times. He responded by going back to his slumber.
I decided it was late enough for me to become frantic when the clock showed midnight.
Fifteen minutes later, I grabbed my coat and my keys and told the sleeping man that I was going to find my babies. My gut told me that I was needed. The rain fell harder as he asked me where I was going to look for them. The wind screamed louder as he reminded me that they both had phones and could call if needed.
My mind, however, reminded me of the many scenarios in which they would need me. The many scenarios in which they could not call for me. I stood at the door with my coat on and my keys in hand and chocked back a sob.
I told myself I was being ridiculous. I reminded myself I was did not panic. Then I confronted myself: If I didn’t normally behave in this manner, why was I now so convinced that my feelings were justified?
At 12:20, I was still in my coat, my purse on my shoulder, standing in the open door when headlights turned on our street. I held my breath and quickly determined they were not the headlights of Trevor’s Chevy Blazer. My breath quickened. My heart pounded in my head as if keeping up with the pounding of the rain on the already drenched ground.
I vaguely heard my husband’s phone ring. I think I heard his mutterings: a few “uh-huhs”, a few “nos”. I started to turn and face him, to hear about his call at 12:35 on the first morning in November. Instead, I focused on the rain forming a moat around my newly planted orange mums. I could no longer hear my own heart beating. Instead I heard his footsteps behind me. I could no longer feel my toes as they stood frozen on the threshold; instead I felt the father of my children take my coat off my shoulders. I both started and warmed to his touch as he wrapped his arms around my waist.
It was then that I felt his heart beat against my back. And again, my own heart began to beat.
It was only a matter of time before my kids outgrew me for Halloween. I much preferred when they were little and I got to select their commercialize costumes of teddy bears and cowboys. I actually enjoyed walking the neighborhood with them and swiping their chocolate candies, especially the ones with nuts.
When Tera was six years old, she politely asked me to not eat the candy bars with the nuts because she actually liked them. I knew my trick-or-treating days were numbered.
Several witch costumes, a hobo, a poodle-skirted zombie and a questionable dance-hall girl later, Tera not-so-politely screamed at me to quit stealing her nutty bars and I knew my trick-or-treating days were over.
And with one invitation to a boy-girl costume party invitation, I was sentenced to sitting at home with my husband passing out the nutty bars to all the lucky mommas whose babies were still young enough to let them sneak the good stuff.
That Halloween, Tera was dressed as Daisy Duke. I didn’t know this would be her costume until her ride honked out front and she dashed from the house out into the pouring rain saying she’d be home by midnight. I yelled a frantic “Love you”. All evening long, I told myself she hollered back that she loved me too and I just hadn’t heard it over the rain pounding on the roof and the slasher movie my son was watching.
A late October storm brings with it wind that howls like the werewolves featured in stories around bonfires all over the countryside. It also brings very few trick-or-treaters to our door, so I got to eat more than my fair share of nutty bars.
It was at 11:30 that I had a deep, sinking feeling in my gut that Tera hadn’t really said “Love You” back to me as I had imagined, and I wanted now more than anything to hear her voice. Trevor’s phone beeped and I jumped. After checking the message, he said Tera wanted him to come pick her up and he bolted from the house. “Love you” I hollered and, as if he knew where my mind had been all night, he returned to peck my cheek and mumble, “Love you too.”
At 11:45, my gut feeling was that my Daisy-duked baby needed her momma. I called Trevor’s phone. No answer. I called Tera’s phone – straight to voice mail. I asked my husband if we should go find them. He woke from his recliner-induced snooze to tell me that they weren’t late yet. I asked him why in the world we hadn’t installed a GPS finder on the car so we could keep tabs on them at all times. He responded by going back to his slumber.
I decided it was late enough for me to become frantic when the clock showed midnight.
Fifteen minutes later, I grabbed my coat and my keys and told the sleeping man that I was going to find my babies. My gut told me that I was needed. The rain fell harder as he asked me where I was going to look for them. The wind screamed louder as he reminded me that they both had phones and could call if needed.
My mind, however, reminded me of the many scenarios in which they would need me. The many scenarios in which they could not call for me. I stood at the door with my coat on and my keys in hand and chocked back a sob.
I told myself I was being ridiculous. I reminded myself I was did not panic. Then I confronted myself: If I didn’t normally behave in this manner, why was I now so convinced that my feelings were justified?
At 12:20, I was still in my coat, my purse on my shoulder, standing in the open door when headlights turned on our street. I held my breath and quickly determined they were not the headlights of Trevor’s Chevy Blazer. My breath quickened. My heart pounded in my head as if keeping up with the pounding of the rain on the already drenched ground.
I vaguely heard my husband’s phone ring. I think I heard his mutterings: a few “uh-huhs”, a few “nos”. I started to turn and face him, to hear about his call at 12:35 on the first morning in November. Instead, I focused on the rain forming a moat around my newly planted orange mums. I could no longer hear my own heart beating. Instead I heard his footsteps behind me. I could no longer feel my toes as they stood frozen on the threshold; instead I felt the father of my children take my coat off my shoulders. I both started and warmed to his touch as he wrapped his arms around my waist.
It was then that I felt his heart beat against my back. And again, my own heart began to beat.
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