Even at the age of six, I knew I would look hideous in it. The moms of all my friends were wholeheartedly embracing the conveniences of modern day America, like store-bought Halloween costumes. In 1996, my mom decided it would be a wonderful childhood memory for me and Emily to have homemade costumes. I blame Martha Stewart one hundred percent for causing my mother’s temporary insanity. Mom didn’t have a crafty or artistic bone in her entire body.
Emily wanted to be a princess. She had been taking ballet lessons since the age of five, so she had all the makings of a decent princess costume.
Mom grabbed a couple of Emily’s light pink tutus and hot glued one on top of the other for the bottom of the gown. The top was made of one of Emily’s hot pink leotards. Mom drizzled hot glue all over it, and then, threw handfuls of glitter at it. She topped off her creation with a tiara made of foil and multicolored marbles as the royal jewels. Emily’s costume didn’t look too bad. If you throw enough glitter on something, people get distracted by the dazzle and don’t notice the ugly as much.
I, on the other hand, wanted to be a cowgirl. A cowgirl costume was the easiest costume to put together. All that was needed was a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, a vest, a pair of boots, and a hat. Ta- da, cowgirl! No hot glue or glitter required. I had everything I needed except the most important item.
Mom and I were at the store when I saw it. It was made of bright red felt, the brim was trimmed in white, and the word ‘cowgirl’ was stitched across the front. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My heart started to flutter.
I grabbed the hat and ran up to my mom beaming with excitement. “Mom, look at it. Isn’t it the most perfect cowgirl hat you’ve ever seen?”
“It’s a very nice hat, Amanda. Now go put it back. We’ve got more shopping to do,” she said while pushing the shopping cart down the aisle.
The smile dropped off my face. I ran up behind her, clutching the hat against my chest. “But Mom, I need it.”
“For what, sweetie?”
“Um…for my Halloween costume,” Sarcasm flowed through each word, accompanied by a smirk, and an eye roll.
“I’m making your costume this year, Amanda. You know that.” I followed behind her as she continued down the aisle, paying more attention to the items she was placing in the cart than me.
“I want to be a cowgirl. It’s the easiest costume to make. I already have everything except the hat. I need this hat, Mom,” I pleaded.
She glanced over her shoulder at me and asked, “Why do you want to be a cowgirl?”
“Because cowgirls are cool,” I said.
As if this wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.
“Noah’s going to be a cool knight. I want to be a cool cowgirl and I will be if I have this hat. Please, Mom.”
She stopped and squatted down in front of me, bringing us eye-to-eye, and said, “Sweetie, you are going to be the coolest kid trick or treating this year.”
“So I can get the hat?” I felt the smile slowly crawl back across my face. I waited with great anticipation to hear the word, “yes” float past her lips.
“No. Guess what you’re going to be for Halloween?” She smiled at me with her stormy blue grey eyes filled with excitement. Standing, she started looking through the shopping cart. When she turned back around she was holding the biggest bag of bright yellow feathers I had ever seen. I looked up at her, my face twisted in confusion. “You’re going to be Tweety Bird! Isn’t that going to be fun?”
I was stunned. “I don’t want to be Tweety Bird. I want to be a cool cowgirl. Why can’t I be a cowgirl?” I whined.
“Because I already have all the things I need to make Tweety,” she said, tossing the big bag of feathers back in the cart.
“We could just put that stuff back, and you could get me this cool cowgirl hat.”
“Amanda, you’re going to be Tweety Bird this year. Stop arguing with me. You need to try and be more like your sister. She never gives me any trouble. You can be a cowgirl next year. Now, go put the hat back.”
With my shoulders slumped and my head lowered in defeat, I dragged my feet slowly as I made my way down the aisle to put the perfect cowgirl hat back on the shelf. “I don’t want to be stupid Tweety. I want to be a cowgirl. It’s my costume,” I grumbled.
“Amanda, hurry up! We need to get going.”
My mom was so obsessed with making the Tweety costume I had started to wonder if she thought I looked like a jaundiced bubble head with puffy cheeks and lips.