Life and Plastic Death

We walked toward the cashiers at Home Depot. The kids were having a rough go of things. Noah was whining, which is his new and oh-let-this-be-over-soon specialty. The "little man" wanted to be carried, but at three years old and D-lineman thick, he is no longer really carriable for me. Hannah, who I currently was carrying because she was picking up everything (everything meaning, metal brackets, screws, 2x4's and lollipops), was desperately squirming like a hooked fish trying to flop back into the waters of merchandise. I finally set her down (instead of catching her by her hair after an enormous barrel roll, which I'm told child services tends to frown on) with firm instructions to keep her little fingers to herself.

Then I looked up into the face of death.

A plasticy, cheaply fabricated, anatomically inaccurate death.

I hate Halloween. This is only in small part because I serve the God of light, who abides in life and grace, in whom there is no darkness. It is more because what culturally came to be a fun time for children has become a nauseatingly childish time for adults. There is no greater proof that we are mass cultural consumers unable to think independent or complex thoughts than our need to put giant inflatable spiders on our lawn.

Trick or treating is fine (for children). Dressing up is cool. A plethora of Reese's in every nook of the house just might have saved it.

But really? We need decor? We need life-sized Grim Reapers (... I feel there is irony lurking in that sentence) and orange lights, and paper mache headstones for our nicely manicured lawn?

However, my rants and opinions change very little. And thus, we came upon death... in the middle of Home Depot... next to the plastic flamingos.

I was concerned and suddenly hating Halloween for entirely other reasons: my sweet little Hannah was now trotting out ahead of us, and she was moments away from encountering this horrific figure. Does innocence count for nothing?

A truly concerned mother would have run up, spun her daughter away from the grim figure and rushed us all past. Sadly, I am more often curious than fully concerned.

At this point my baby girl was even with the plastic death, she started to turn, and I held my breath. Her eyes locked with the black hollows in the skullish face, a bony finger stretched toward her, pointing at her little heart, evil cackled "Abandon All Hope." I waited for the wailing, the crumbling, the clinging.

A look broke over my sweetie bear's face: her nose scrunched, her lips curled back to reveal her sharp baby teeth, she grinned and jutted her chin forward.

And then...

Her chubby little baby finger swung around and poked it's way right back into death's face. I should think if he were an actual specter, a horrible visage from the other realm, that he would have stepped back and looked around confused. As it was, I think the plastic was taken a bit aback. Hannah held her terrible pose for a second, long enough to telekinetically inform death that she was keeping an eye on him and he best just keep his little self in line, before skipping merrily toward an unsuspecting Cheetos display.

That's my girl: the minion so strong-willed, she stuck it to death.

Heaven help me.