My Hallowe'ens were better/worse than yours

Why they were better

Some people say that children growing up in big cities miss out on important aspects of childhood. I say, those people have never thought about Hallowe'en. Hallowe'en is vastly improved by urban high-density living.

I grew up in an apartment complex of two buildings, each over 20 stories. In the week leading up to Hallowe'en, a sheet of paper would be posted in each elevator so that residents participating in Hallowe'en could list their apartment number. On the fateful night, we would copy down the list of active apartments. Then it was simply a matter of taking the elevator to the top floor, starting with 21B, C, and F, or whatever it might be, and taking the stairs down to 20.

This is the most highly efficient form of candy-gathering known to child. You worked the building like a typewriter, across one floor and then down a row to the next. You didn't need to waste time on decoding Hallowe'en-participation symbols like carved pumpkins, because you had the list in front of you. (Added benefit for residents, those not wishing to serve treats didn't have to hide in the back rooms with the lights off.)

And best of all, because you never went outside, your parents stopped feeling the need to supervise you after you turned, say, 8. Not to mention you avoided the perils of subjecting your costume to the weather. It was independent candy-gathering paradise.


Why they were worse

My parents, bless their thrifty, wholesome, Puritan souls, didn't believe in giving out Kit Kats like the rest of the world. They were the hated household that handed out boxes of raisins for Pete's sake (Dr Hyde, incredulous: "And nobody ever egged your apartment?"). On a few occasions, my mother made giant batches of chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin cookies instead, and we tied them up in little plastic baggies for dispensation, so those were the good years.

Even worse, they liked to give out noisemakers. Ah, but not plastic dime-store noisemakers. My parents had determined that a great fun toy for young children was...wait for it...bubble wrap. They would save up the bubble wrap that came in packages throughout the year, and then actually cut it into somewhat smaller squares so as not to run out on Halloween. "You can pop the bubbles, like this! POP!" my mother explained brightly to each dubious child.

The parents who accompanied younger kids quickly masked their astonishment with praise for the "creativity" of this idea. (And in my parents' defense, the 4-7 year old set usually did get a kick out of the stuff, either popping the bubbles one by one, or, for the adventurous souls, laying the sheet down on the ground and jumping on it for maximum effect.)

The older children were generally less successful at disguising their contempt. (Dr Hyde: "You didn't at least get toilet papered?" Me: "Hard to mess with someone's place when they're on the 18th floor.") When I was younger, of course I thought that bubble wrap was a pretty decent hand-out, but as I grew up I began to see Hallowe'en as vaguely shameful, particularly when I had to help my parents cut the bubble wrap into pieces. Anyhow, for those of you who know me, it probably helps to understand my psychology, that my parents thought that raisins and bubble wrap were treats on the most candy-filled holiday of the year.

Dr Hyde and I hand out Kit Kats.

Having a child made me pro-choice

Ok, that's an overstatement--I was pro-choice to begin with. But before having a baby, I was pro-choice in a somewhat abstract way. "Women's medical decisions are private! No one should be forced to bear a child!" etc etc.

Now that I have one? I would personally help out, with money or time or support, any woman I knew who needed help procuring an abortion. I would go so far as to say that I am baffled that any woman with kids could feel otherwise.

Everyone assures me that the newborn phase passes and things get better. That is cold comfort when one's child chooses not to sleep for seven hours straight. And demands constant rocking, jiggling, nursing, bouncing, repeat ad nauseam (mine) for the duration. Small is a lovely baby, and fun to play with when he's happy, but staying home alone with him all day is intermittently dreadful. On days when he refuses to sleep, I would be willing to hand him off to a passing stranger. Once a week or so he screams his head off for a few minutes while I sit in another room, unresponsive, because I simply cannot stand to deal with him for another moment.

And lest we forget, I really, really, really wanted this baby.

The point here is not that I am dealing with new motherhood and continuing vicious sleep deprivation, although that is also true. The point is, some days are difficult enough even knowing that this is a dearly desired baby, a baby we went through many medical procedures to achieve, a baby I am (generally) happy to have.

If I had not wanted this baby? The neglect would have started early and often. If I didn't have the vast amount of support that I do in fact have, things would be even worse. Who thinks it's a good idea to encourage this?

And don't tell me that adoption is the solution unless you yourself have adopted a few children.

So there you have it. I've always been pro-choice, but having a child has radicalized me. This is a hard enough path even when it's been chosen. I could never tell a woman to go through it unwillingly, nor could I live with putting a baby in a situation where it wasn't wanted. I really don't understand how any woman with children could feel otherwise.

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Dr Hyde points out that posts like this will send Small into therapy, when he's old enough. "Your mother said that having you made her support abortion!" To which I say, therapy is healthy.

For the love of God, do not litter up the comments with suggestions on how to get babies to sleep. Your white noise, your swaddling, your slings, whatever, sometimes (as today) nothing works, it is miserable for everyone involved, and don't presume to tell me otherwise. And in any case, that is not what this post is about.

First day back

There is nothing like a six-week hiatus spent entirely catering to the whims of a small but angry dictator to make you appreciate your job.

I know that many women (and some men) discover that they prefer staying home after having a baby, but I can assure you all that I am not one of those people. It was fabulous to go to work, where nobody screamed at me or pooped on me, and I could go to the bathroom whenever I pleased.

Also, I had the chance to think about my hot science and run some meta-analysis of data collected Before Small. Even though the meta-analysis was tedious and ultimately didn't tell me anything of note, it was heaven.

As a bonus, I was excited to see Small in the evening, rather than wanting to dump him in Dr Hyde's arms as I do when he's been at work all day.

It's clear that pumping milk, which was easy to schedule into an analysis day, will become a big hassle on experiment days, but we'll cross that mammary-supplied river when we come to it. Right now I'm just happy to have a semblance of my normal thinking life back.