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[ Originally published on: Friday, October 05, 2007 ]
The Candy Monster came last night and ate up all the Halloween candy at our house. A week or two after Halloween we leave the leftover candy out for him, with a toothbrush.
This year the Candy Monster scribbled, ''Thanks for the Candy (burp). Heart, Candy Monster,'' a hurried looking note on a small yellow square of paper. It seemed like the Candy Monster was in a rush.
''Did the Candy Monster come?'' My 5-year-old daughter Athena and just 3-year-old son Etani asked sleepily when they stumbled into the dining room. Ut-oh. I grabbed my right hand with my left to keep myself from smacking my forehead. ''I don't know,'' I said slowly and a little curiously, trying not to panic. James and I had gone to bed late, distracted by school forms to sign and work to finish, and neither one of us had noticed a monster quietly padding into our house. ''I didn't see him.''
(Before I fell into bed I did cry to James that ''the Candy Monster better not forget to come!'' but I was so exhausted that I hadn't actually gone to check if he showed. If the Candy Monster, in whom my children believe fervently, didn't show up it would be like canceling Thanksgiving or having no Easter basket on Easter.)
''Go get dressed,'' I suggested to Athena and Etani, ''and then we'll check.''
The Candy Monster himself must have been watching because my children miraculously agreed. Athena guided her little brother by the hand, offering to pick out his day clothes. I flew into the kitchen where we had left the bowl of candy, and shut the door. The Candy Monster was definitely late in coming but he did manage to make a clean sweep of the candy, leave a few wrappers, and a desperately scribbled note in the time it took for three offspring to emerge from their bedrooms, hungry for breakfast and wondering about nice monsters who gobble down leftover Halloween goodies every year.
''The Candy Monster has bright pink fur,'' my husband told them a few days ago, ''like cotton candy. And gumdrops for eyes.'' I always imagined him with raggedy blue fur, like Cookie Monster, and Oreo-cookie eyes, but I didn't say anything.
''Doesn't he get a tummy ache?'' My 7-year-old, the same little creature who insists that I am really the Easter Bunny, asks innocently. She knows the Candy Monster's real. She knows her parents are too disorganized, stressed out, and sleep-deprived to have the energy to impersonate the Candy Monster. (She also believes in Santa, because her father, when he was Baby Jimmy, actually saw Santa putting presents under the tree at his house).
''He's a Candy Monster,'' James reassures her. ''He doesn't get a tummy ache.''
When I was growing up, Halloween was one of the only holidays we celebrated. My mom had a huge bag of stage make-up and she liked helping me think up and execute homemade costumes. A headscarf, long skirt, and lots of bangles could turn a girl into a gypsy in less than twenty minutes; we used burnt cork to paint a pirate-eye patch. My friend Thea was once a handmade Cheerios cereal box and Thomas a vicious circle (he wore fangs and a white circle dripping blood). When my oldest daughter was a baby we made her some red horns and dressed her in a red onesie and red pants (a perfect summary of her devilish personality). When she was fifteen months old my best friend Sue and I sewed her an elf costume (her sticky-outy ears were what gave us the idea). When she was two she chose to be a ballerina and decided her new baby sister would be a yellow bird so we made Athena a beak head band and stuck feathers on a yellow shirt. I love the costumes, I love the elaborate displays that neighbors make, and I love going into the crisp night air to watch my children exuberantly trick-or-treat.
The only thing I don't love about Halloween is the candy.
That's why we grown-ups are always so happy to see that the Candy Monster has come (we can tell by the leftover wrappers he leaves and the note of thanks he scrawls). The night before his arrival, albeit reluctantly, the kids offer up their hoards of leftover candy. Even though they're a bit grumpy about doing it, there's something so exciting about knowing a friendly gluttonous monster is coming to the house.
And though he was a little late this year, James and I were glad he didn't forget us.
Jennifer Margulis is an award-winning children's author and columnist. A Massachusetts native, she and her children trick-or-treat in Ashland, Oregon, where they now live.
