An ode to a ruined Halloween and to parental genius

When I was a really young kid—maybe five or even four—it was pouring rain on Halloween and my mom refused to go out trick-or-treating. I remember screaming and crying with crushing disappointment, until my mom, in her infinite maternal wisdom, decided to “play” trick-or-treating with me. My mom would go behind the various doors in our apartment and I, all dressed up in my costume, would knock on the door, and she would, of course, pretend to be a friendly neighbor and give me candy.

Even though I was fully aware it was only playing at trick-or-treating, for some reason this was actually enough for me—the tears disappeared immediately. It was as if the actual act of going to strangers around the neighborhood and getting candy from them specifically was not the point—it was merely the physical process of trick-or-treating and actually getting to eat candy that I wanted.

I guess the thing that amazes me the most about this is my mom’s solution to my misery. I am not nearly as good with kids as she is, and I can just imagine that if I—and most parents, probably—were in the same situation, I’d just be like, too bad, kid, buck up or go to your room. I wouldn’t have even THOUGHT of pretending to trick-or-treat, and even if I did, I’d probably just assume it wouldn’t work. I think I once asked my mom how she came up with such a brilliant stroke of genius, and she could only answer that, as with every stroke of genius, it just came to her.