Why I Hate Halloween

This is my least favorite holiday of the year. It’s when innocuous places such as your local greeting-card store start hanging cardboard skeletons on their front doors. Not that I mind my children learning anatomy and respecting a skeleton for the incredible feat of God’s design that it is, or knowing that we carry a version (plus or minus a few floating ribs) inside of us all year long. Why should they fear their own bodies?

It’s not the skeletons that disturb me. Nor is it the underlying ancient celebration of evil. It’s just the amount of candy I, as a loving and caring parent, am annually compelled to eat. My kids do not go trick-or-treating. Yet I like to keep at least a 4-lb bag of miniature chocolates for the kids who might knock at my door.

I don’t want to look like a cheapskate and give them a 30-minute lecture on my feelings about Halloween when all they really want is candy. With my upbringing in an Indian family where my mother could keep four burners on to whip up a feast for unexpected visitors, I wouldn’t know what to do if I ran out of candy.

You can’t open a roll of lifesavers and drop them one-at-a-time, can you? You’d be suspected of poisoning or lacing the candy with drugs. (Not that the germs on the fingertips of many meal-preparers are a desirable alternative, but still, you feel some obligation to health standards.) Parents of trick-or-treaters should demand that participating homes turn on porch lights, and display a Department of Health certificate showing that their candy is safe to eat, nutritious, and of course, low in fat.

Remember the lady in your childhood who refused to distribute candy? What a party pooper! Her porch light was on, but when she came out with her “goodies” there was an awful thud as a big red apple crashed into your bag, pulverizing your Smarties to look like old-time medicinal powders. Not only was this accursed apple devoid of added sugar, fat, preservatives, artificial colorings and flavorings, it also occupied half the volume of your bag! Who would dress up and pound the pavement in the dark for a healthy snack? After all, this was back in the 1970’s, when French fries and ketchup counted as two servings of vegetables. That lady was an extremist in her day!

I expect to be stuck with 3 pounds of artificially flavored and colored sugar and fat, neatly wrapped in morsel-sized packaging. And like any other conscientious mother, I’m not going to let my kids eat any of it! Okay, maybe they can have one or two of pieces on the days when they’ve eaten all their dinner (gratefully), done their school work and chores, tidied their rooms, played nicely, not whined, taken naps, and in general, made sycophants of themselves. But that will still leave me with at least 2½ pounds’ worth. I wouldn’t dare stuff that into their growing bodies, and also, out of consideration for all those I have ever seen going hungry, I won’t throw any of it away either.

So, the choice is obvious - I’ll have it in the dark of night as I’m cleaning my kitchen (if I’m cleaning my kitchen) when the entire household is asleep: the epitome of maternal sacrifice for my children’s health.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so selfish. I should care as deeply for the children who come to my door as I do for my own kids. Let’s give them something healthy too. Can you get individually wrapped edible Styrofoam (AKA rice cakes)? How about little bottles of drinking water or boxed raisins?

I’ve got it! Boiled eggs – all natural, biodegradable, tamper-proof packages of protein. And children, you needn’t worry; I’d never be so heartless as to give out apples. That incident alone has scarred me for life, or I’d have trick-or-treated into my teens…you know, like the “big kids” who pop one pillowcase on their heads and carry another as the treat bag.

While I’m in this altruistic mood, what shall I punish myself with? Whoppers are good: they keep well in apron pockets, and, should anyone happen to suddenly intrude, can be discreetly pushed to the side of one’s mouth without serious breath alteration. And as long as I plan to suffer, I wonder if Whoppers come in gallon-sized jugs.