Nicholas and I gulped in the warm air, wiped our
sweaty brows, and stopped for heavy swigs from our water bottles after a
marathon soccer game. Eventually, a few of his friends joined in and I
retreated to the sidelines to chat with other parents, comparing notes on the
recent high winds and flooding. When the kids tired of the game and gathered
around the monkey bars, they, too, began to trade stories of what had mattered
most to them in the wake of our collective storms: Halloween candy. I listened
as one boy boasted he got one hundred pieces, another seventy-five. Nicholas
himself had scored forty-five pieces, which he’d proudly lined up on our window
seat. As the Halloween tales made their way around the circle, one cagey
five-year-old stopped and looked at me. “Hey, we came to your house for
trick-or-treat,” he said.
I was secretly pleased to be remembered. I must be
one of the “cool” moms, I thought with a warm smile. I felt a surge of love for
this little boy. Already I was mentally arranging a play date for him at our
house.
“Yeah,” he continued. “You gave us licorice.” His
voice carried a slightly accusatory tone.
“Oh?” I said. “That could be. We gave out lots of
stuff. Kit Kats, Butterfingers, M&Ms, licorice.”
He shook his head, as if about to call me out as a
liar right in front of his now curious pals. “No, I’m pretty sure it was
licorice.” Big, wondering eyes looked up at me.
“Could be.” I tried for diplomacy; I really did.
“Lots of times I like to throw in licorice with another treat.”
He stared at me. “Just licorice.” His disappointment
was palpable. I felt the need to defend myself, if not for my sake, for my
son’s. Surely we gave out plenty of good
stuff. Maybe not whole candy bars like some of our neighbors, but we didn’t
shirk when it came to Halloween.
“And isn’t licorice delicious?” I tried again. “I
love the red kind. But some people really like black licorice.” The kids eyed
me skeptically.
Ever since I was a little girl I’ve loved red
licorice, all kinds. The tried-and-true Twizzlers that you can peel off with a
satisfactory tug, the longer whips that you can curl and twist onto
your tongue, even licorice pipes held a place in my heart. They seemed so
grown-up and whimsical at the same time. So maybe I harbored my own little addiction
to the red stuff. Perhaps it played a role in my decision-making in the candy
aisle, but what parent doesn’t let his or her own preferences influence the
final pick?
Still, it never occurred to me that we might get a
black mark on our house for handing out this particular treat on Halloween. I assumed
such scorn was reserved for folks who gave out home-made popcorn or a single
lollipop or, even worse, toothbrushes! Dispensing licorice with an assortment
of other choices didn’t seem like such a travesty. But then again, I hadn’t
been five in a long time. What did I know?
When we were walking back from the park, I asked
Nicholas if he liked licorice. “Yeah,” he said, then ran off ahead of me. Once
home, I pulled out the tub of week-old candy, determined to prove my theory once
and for all: kids still liked licorice. I unwrapped a miniature three-pronged Twizzlers
and handed it to him. He took a bite, then gave the rest to me. “I think I’ll
have the M&Ms instead,” he said.
And there, writ large in his chocolate-smudged face,
was the truth: I’d become the mom who hands out old-fashioned trick-or-treat
candy, the kind that no kid really likes.
Next fall, with the election and the hurricane a
distant memory, I’ll remember this tall truth as I cruise the aisles in
October. I’ll stuff my cart with treats of the chocolate variety. But don’t be
surprised if a bag of Twizzlers gets tucked in underneath.
This time, though, it will be just for me.
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