nun's robes

BY ASH KRAFTON

I sat, sewing the robes of a cloistered nun for my 8-year-old.

I'd had it with Hannah Montana and the big-headed Bratz dolls and the temper tantrums. Every mother has a breaking point and last night I defined mine. I drew the line with a Sharpie, had it engraved, and deliberately crossed it.

Let me backtrack before I lose you.

The kids go to Catholic school. It's a small school and only God and the Bishop know how long they'll keep it open. There aren't any Sisters teaching, which is a terrible shame because that's the problem with kids today: they don't have the wits scared out of them on a daily basis by some lady proclaiming to be the bride of Christ.

Halloween is almost here. It's my favorite season. I like to grow out my nails and paint them black and dust gothy circles around my eyes. I wear a cape when I volunteer at the school store and I tell the kids it's not a costume. I have a magnificent full-throated "mu-wa-ha-ha" laugh. I might not be evil but I could play it on TV.

And then, suddenly, Halloween is over. Boom! November! Holy day! All Saints Day, to be exact. Just like that, I have to switch off all my Halloween glory and go back to being Catholic. It's a tremendous let down.

This year, the kids get to dress up like a Saint on November 1. I told the boy to wear his Disney Prince Phillip knight suit and go as Saint George. Maleficent (in dragon form) is on the shield. He can tell the other kids it's the dragon that Saint George slayed, while my daughter secretly informs them that the dragon is really her mom, the Mistress of All Evil (mu-wa-ha-ha!).

The boy said NO.

Argh.

I put the whole saints-costume issue off for a few days and let the husband work it out. He's really smart.

His suggestion was brilliant. The young lad got a Yoda costume for Halloween, so he can wear his Jedi robes and go as St. Joseph the Carpenter. He'll accessorize with his wooden crab mallet that he got in Baltimore last month. He's been dying to take it to school but his teacher tends to be so anti-weapon and all.

But what to do about my daughter? She's dressing up like a Cheerleader of Death. I don't know any saints who wear fishnet and nylon gauntlets. I asked the husband to pick up two bed sheets and I'll make her into St. Theresa. Nuns kind of look like they're dressed in bed sheets as it is. How hard could it be?

I'll tell you how hard.

I own a sewing machine. Anyone who cans tomatoes and makes homemade potpie noodles better have a sewing machine -- it's Pennsylvania Dutch state law. I just suck at using it. I bought it last year for a single sewing project and after that I buried it in my room.

Last night I dug it out and the pain began. Why do I insist on doing things that make me curse? It must be the emo in me.

I spent a full hour swearing. I hollered at the machine. I hollered at the dog. I hollered at the kids. I threatened the husband when he walked into the room and looked at me. I threw things, shook my fist in the air at my late grandmother (who had worked in a sewing factory and no doubt was sitting on a cloud, pointing and laughing).

You would think that making a saint's costume would grant me some kind of Divine Assistance. But no. Foaming at the mouth and shaking in rage, I passed my breaking point and almost called down the Hand of Doom to end everything in this entire plane of existence.

Deep breath.

I resorted to getting out the instructions so I could look up how to thread the damned thing. From that point on, it was pretty much gravy.

I sewed for nearly three hours. The children went to bed and I had to use my husband as a model. I made a cassock, an apron, a cloak, and a veil. I sprayed the hell out of them with Downy Wrinkle Releaser and went to bed, thinking that if that girl wakes up and says she doesn't want to dress like a nun, I'll cloister her up with the Amontillado downstairs.

I woke up early today to roll one of the hems by hand. The kids will wake up for school soon, and I'll get to see how she looks as St. Theresa. It's not perfect but it's pretty cool. And I made them big enough for her to grow into, so that I can use them as a threat when she starts talking about boys and Britney and birds and bees and stuff. My husband always said he'd get a baseball bat and a shovel but now I've one-upped him.

I've got cloistered nun's robes for my 8-year-old. If that doesn't leave an impression on her, not much else will.

Pushcart Prize-nominee Ash Krafton is a speculative fiction writer who resides in the heart of the Pennsylvania coal region. She made her publishing debut in the spring of 2009 when her poetry appeared in Poe Little Thing; her work has since appeared in several journals including: Niteblade, Everyday Weirdness, SNM Horror, and Silver Blade. She can be reached at: ashkrafton@frontiernet.net.