Scrooge DNA

Mark loves pumpkin guts as much as Braeden is repelled by them.

My favorite viking and flip flop wearing clone trooper

Emma getting into character with a sad face to be a hobo.  Emma with facial hair frightens me.  I was surprised she spelled friends wrong on her sign.  When I pointed it out she said, "Mom...I'm a hobo?" 

Emma told me I'm the Ebeneezer Scrooge of Halloween.  It's true.  I am.  I'm not proud.  I don't decorate my house for Halloween.  I don't dress up.  I am not even hiding my joy that Halloween was on Sunday so we "couldn't" go trick-or-treating.  (Darn.)

Here's what worries me though:  I'm ruining the holiday for innocent future generations.

I can just see my progenitors with a photo of me, throwing darts at it every October 31.  Because of me, my kids are less into Halloween.  They've gone through their stages of angst over my attitude (see first sentence of this post).  They've complained about my lack of decorations/enthusiasm/costume wearing.

But then the other day Braeden said, "Mom, I get why you don't like Halloween.  I don't think I like it either."

Sorry future generations.

And then there's Mark.

Oh, Mark.

He was a bundle of enthusiasm in his clone costume.  He ran the gauntlet at the school Halloween carnival with panache.  He stood in line, trading tickets for chances to win; winning tickets then trading them for cheap junkie toys.  He ate lukewarm pizza.

Mark and Gavin

At the church Halloween carnival he was equally committed to the task at hand:  noise, sugar questing, noise.

But then he came to me and said, "I need to go somewhere quiet."

I saw my great chance, "Do you want to go home?" I asked maybe a little bit too willingly, "Because I'll take you home."  (We did after all, have two cars.)

He said, "No.  I haven't gone trick or treating yet."

Rats.

Later he found me again.  This time with his clone costume crumpled in a ball and a dangerous look on his face.

"Home," he said.

I whisked him to the parking lot before he could change his mind.  On the drive home he complained about all the noise.  All the people.  All the Halloween.

I thought, he's just like my dad.  (We named Mark so well.)

Then I realized, I'm just like my dad.

So, dear future generations, don't blame me.  I inherited this the same way you did.  (And who knows where my Dad got it...long ago there was a pale faced Scandinavian who disliked Halloween and crowds and excess...we'll blame them.)