Dear Good Enough Parent,
Halloween is the fishbowl parenting event of the year, really, and I’m already dreading the social dynamics. My kid wants to trick-or-treat with a big group of 7-year-olds, and their parents who will be at varying levels of Having Had a Few Drinks. I am not good in big groups and I just know I’m going to feel stressed and self-conscious, with the “wait, do we have everybody??” and “did we lose so-and-so’s third kid?” I would just so much rather be sitting around a firepit with my two best friends.
Of course I want my kid to enjoy their Halloween more than I want the firepit, but it sucks. And I’m wondering how more social people frame this night to themselves and if there’s anything I can learn from them? Or should I just go on antidepressants?
Well, friend, don’t let me stop you from going on antidepressants if that’s what you need. But I will remind you that there’s nothing pathological about parenting tensions. Parenting is hard. And being an introvert and a parent is, in moments like these, harder.
I am not an introvert. Speaking of pathology, the extent to which I need to be around people to feel content could be considered some kind of medical condition. I want to go to four birthday parties, all in a row, charming the crowd at each one, my kids in tow. The annoying thing is, though, my children don’t always feel this way. When my son wants to sit in the house all day, happy as can be, acting out battles on a giant piece of butcher paper or playing endless Battleship (he knows what he likes), I feel like I might explode any second. I look at the door, at the vast sky outside, at the people walking by, like I am gazing at a bottle of fine whiskey while fondling my AA chip. I do feel the purpose of what it is I am doing when I’m home with my kid. But I do not like doing it. It’s not for me.
I imagine that’s how you must feel tramping around town in a gang, all those parents holding their roadies, dreaming of your solitary couch or that cozy firepit. And you know what, it’s not just your introversion that makes you feel that way. Groups of parents can be a bit strange, can take on the energy of a makeshift friend group heading to their first college party. Together by accident and convenience, fueled by stress, overcompensating. I’ve heard many a brave parent complain about the specific vibes created by a group of parents getting a little too tipsy. Booze can feel celebratory and fast-track friendships, but it can also feel out of place and exacerbate social anxiety. Then, sh*t can get weird. When I asked a friend about her experience at a recent PTA fundraiser party, which is historically laden with alcohol, her response was, “Did you ever see Big Little Lies?” No, thank you. I’ll pass.
We’ve validated your desire to avoid the adults in this scenario, but what about the kids? Your kid wants to go, so you should go. Seems like airtight logic, but it’s not! I don’t presume to know the exact nature of your kid’s personality. They are all different, which is why giving parenting advice is such a fraught undertaking, even with all my long-winded caveats.
Lots of kids want in on the Halloween action. Like us, some of them want to go all night and others are satisfied to get some candy and go home. But, I’m willing to guess that for many 7-year-olds, whatever their parents do on Halloween is of little importance. Maybe when they are 3, or 4, or 5, they want to hold your hand the whole time, or need to run back and give you a hug each time they persevere through a tremendous fear and perhaps their own introvert overwhelm in order to actually knock on a stranger’s door and score that fun-sized Snickers. But, as sad as this might feel, you are likely rapidly fading into the background on nights like this one. It’s about the candy, and the fun, and the friends, and maybe a few grapes peeled to look like eyeballs. It’s not about you.
What if you just asked them, “Is it important to you that I come, or is it just the same if I don’t?”
It can be hard to know exactly when our presence matters to our kids. Mine will sometimes beg me to stay and literally push me away in the span of minutes. What if you just asked them, “Is it important to you that I come, or is it just the same if I don’t?” This could be an opportunity to learn more about what actually feels like special connection for them. It might also help them build their understanding of what fills and drains you (we use the metaphor of a “battery” in my family, but buckets do just as fine).
Maybe they’d actually rather you snuggle with them later that night to watch a Simpsons’ Treehouse of Horror, or make them pumpkin pancakes in the morning, or just be yourself and give them all of the joy and attention they are probably already getting on the daily, more than almost all human children have gotten for the entirety of human existence.
If you have a partner, the conversation can extend there. Can your partner be the one tracking the mass of trick-or-treaters? Can you cook a late dinner, or get started on next year’s taxes, or simply recharge your battery? I bet there’s something they hate that you love, or at least can tolerate, in exchange. One self-identified introvert friend admitted to me that she doesn’t mind Halloween, she just become anxious about doing it “right” and that her nervous system will enter overload. This year, she decided to just let her husband take her kids for the whole mishegoss, walk herself around the block to catch the good part of the vibes, and head home to “hide in the house” (I’d recommend turning that porch light off).
As you can probably guess from my earlier admissions, I love Halloween. I just gobble it up. This year, I’ve spent all of Halloween weekend in bed, recovering from a bike accident. I missed the parade (actually, there were two), the dress-up party with my husband’s friends, the outdoor screening of Ghostbusters, the “Spooky Puppy” contest, which I’ve been dreaming about for a whole year, ever since I laid eyes on Edward Scissorpaws. I would give anything to be out there, soaking all that humanity (or canine-ness) into my pores. I am keenly aware of that skin-crawly feeling of being in the wrong place for you, at the wrong moment. And you know what, I think you deserve better.
So I’ve come up with a great plan for you: Say goodbye to your family, throw on some sweats, and get the firepit going. The memories will be made, with or without you. But you can’t get back your sanity. That, truly, is precious.
The Good Enough Parent is an advice column for parents who are sick of parenting advice. Let Sarah answer your questions about the messy realities of parenting! Send her your questions via this anonymous form or by emailing her at goodenoughparentcolumn@gmail.com.
