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Halloween

 My former teacher, Amy Bloom, described her particular childhood; she disliked "feminine" clothing, and she often chose to stay home, reading memoirs by prostitutes. (Her favorite was "A House Is Not a Home," by Polly Adler.) She also read abridged versions of Shakespeare stories, and she would wander around, refashioning herself as Henry V. ("I curse thee, knave!")


Imagine my sense of thrill when my daughter announced that she wanted to be a tropical bird for Halloween. At last, a break from the tyranny of the princess narrative. Susie found an outfit that she liked--and I liked it, too. With its odd, semi-abstract headpiece, it made me think of something a flapper would wear, in the Roaring Twenties. Susie's costume kicked ass.

Fast forward to 3pm. At the end of the day, Susie was no longer a bird, but a princess. She had persuaded her teacher to trash the bird costume and dig out a pink gown. Attached to this utterly unremarkable gown were two small fairy wings.

I bit my tongue. Certainly, if my daughter believes that she *wants* to be a princess, I can't *make* her pick something slightly odd, outside the norm.

My friend, my neighbor, seemed to detect my sadness. "I'm having a party for fairies," she said, and she looked at me, suggestively. "You don't have to be three years old. You could be 42, and a fairy, and you could march right in...."

Thank God for a chance to be distracted from the incessant chattering of my own worried old mind.






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