Confessions of a Party Pooper

The Trash Heap has spoken.

This might be the height of unpopular opinion, but as we pick up the chocolate wrappers and climb down from the sugar rush, let me confess; I don’t get Halloween.

Part of it comes from hearing my mother’s voice, “It’s an American holiday” (Thanks Mum - insert ire at anything from the US here) and part of it stems from extreme reluctance to give my darling children any more candy.

On Halloween Eve they were so excited they made a bridge of beanbags and soft toys between their beds, fought, laughed and were a nuisance until 9pm. The next morning’s effort to get ready was a disaster - when we bolted out the door the lounge was strewn with discarded underwear, crashed monster trucks and half-finished porridge.

Thankfully for the boys, Grandma organised treats for them, and our very kind neighbour bought them candy. She even waved a skeleton hand at us that morning - but they were too busy fighting over their seatbelts to notice.

We’d made Halloween salt dough decorations, so the milk has a dementor hanging from it and the front door now says ‘Enter if you dare.’ Corin and I dutifully assisted these great works of art into the world. Poor buggers, he chuckled, stuck with two parents who learned this wasn’t something we celebrated.

The thing is - I just don’t like it.

I don’t like skulls, I don’t like scary movies, I don’t like freaky stuff that makes me jump in the night.

I don’t like it.

I remember the total flabagastment (new word?) that hit me on Halloween when I lived in California. The world suddenly turned on its head for a night. In photos you can see the confusion in my eyes; what the hell is this?

Now there’s the new phenomenon of darling friends spooking the hell out of me for weeks by sharing pictures of the dolls they’ve lined up on their deck. Not nice dolls either. Stop it Kathleen. Please, just stop.

In conclusion: Dressing up is fine. Having fun is great. Being witchy is no problem.

But the whole commericalised beast that bores ads into the boys’ brains and pulls them into wanting more and more and more - I’m out. This Mum is an A+ party pooper and is saving her chits for Christmas.

Indeed, the Trash Heap has spoken. Mwah.

PS Yes my children are wearing vampire teeth because in the end we caved to the commericalised beast didn’t we? Bring on the Mariah Carey Christmas carols.