The Secret to Halloween as a Dad Is to Go All In
HALLOWEEN IS a big deal in my New England neighborhood.
I know you’re thinking, Yeah, yeah, I’m sure, and that’s exactly how my wife and I responded to our new neighbor Gregg. He warned us about the approaching holiday after we moved into our house in 2017.
We figured that the Edwardian homes would toss up some modest decorations: a few strands of orange lights, your run-of-the-mill jack-o’-lanterns, maybe a cackling witch or two.
But Gregg fixed us with a stern glower. “No,” he said firmly. “It’s a big, big deal.” We glanced to his husband, whose somber nod prickled nervous sweat on our brows under the late October sun. A gale picked up. Somewhere a dog howled.
Gregg was right: For hours that Halloween night, cars pulled up to unload ghouls, witches, ballerinas, and superheroes, who mercilessly drained our gorilla-sized bags of Costco candy. Only by way of that bulk-store membership card did we survive, our cartful of sweets enough to appease the tiny dark gods of bounty.
Spurred by the victory of that survival, my wife and I vowed to make the next Halloween even better.
Instead, 2018 brought us the surprise of twin girls. Their arrival home just before Halloween took us out of the holiday altogether. Remember on Battlestar Galactica how the Cylons would attack every 33 minutes to wear down the human survivors? That was us—the walking, sleepless dead.
We sat in our house bleary-eyed most of that Halloween night, the porch darkened, ignoring the ringing doorbell that seemed to toll, “SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!” And for the next 364 days, we plotted.
In 2019, we’d come roaring back to Halloween not only better prepared but armed with something no one else on our block had (not even the show-offs with the smoke machine): twins. Adorable, fat-cheeked, wide-eyed twins that melted people’s faces off with their double dose of inescapable cuteness. I could not wait to get them into costumes.
After working through a series of options (The Incredibles, BB-8/BB-9E, GoT), my wife and I finally settled on the crew from Black Panther. My wife would be Nakia, my daughters and dog Dora Milaje warriors, and I, Killmonger. My wife, brave soul, made our daughters’ costumes—tiny spears and everything.
I ordered my costume, but only the mask (which looked nothing like what was promised) arrived. Halloween was upon us, however, so I went as a low-rent Killmonger: rubbery mask, jeans, and a black hoodie.
Throughout that Halloween, I felt as if I were having an out-of-body experience. As I watched the stream of trick-or-treaters fawn over my daughters, I also envisioned the tradition through my daughters’ eyes. They had no idea why their dad was in a goofy rubber mask, or why this parade of people was storming our house demanding sweets that they couldn’t have and making googly eyes at them.
Twenty minutes in, our daughters started tearing into and chewing on parts of their costumes. I realized: They couldn’t care less about any of this.
All the decorations and costumes and preparations were about me as a father, trying to make sure my girls got what I thought was a head start on the time-honored ritual.
Halloween with just my wife and me was one thing. But we had expanded our family by a factor of two, and “firsts” had suddenly become a big deal.
“Firsts” carry this feeling that if I somehow mess up the tradition for them, I’ll turn them off from that tradition for life.
Yet for all the chaos of Halloween, my daughters took it in stride. They didn’t care that Dad had phoned in his costume. They didn’t care if our house wasn’t the best decorated on the block. They didn’t even mind that they couldn’t yet enjoy the beautiful horror of candy corn. They just went with it. And, in turn, so did I.
Or at least I did for 2019.
Because Gregg’s been warning me about 2020.
This article originally appeared in the October 2020 issue of Men's Health.
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