A Few Rules for Beginners
By Katherine Mansfield
Babies must not eat the coal
And they must not make grimaces,
Nor in party dresses roll
And must never black their faces.
They must learn that pointing’s rude,
They must sit quite still at table,
And must always eat the food
Put before them—if they’re able.
If they fall, they must not cry,
Though it’s known how painful this is;
No—there’s always Mother by
Who will comfort them with kisses.
Costumes are fun, aren’t they? It’s a treat pretending you’re someone else, especially someone from such wonderful books as Harry Potter. We considered wearing costumes ourselves, but weren’t able to find anything appropriate on such short notice.
Call me old-fashioned, but I think propriety is important. There are times and places, and —like it or not—expectations. I believe propriety is especially important when dealing with children. I don’t swear in front of children, or let my son watch The Simpsons, or wear t-shirts with puerile sexual innuendo to the playground. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
I’ve read six-and-three-fourths of the Harry Potter books. Six of them several times. We own the hardback, paperback, and audio book versions of all but the last. And while J.K. Rowling is rather imaginative and descriptive, I simply can’t recall her ever introducing a dominatrix to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
No patent-leather boots or fish-net stockings, no push-up bra or oversmall bodice. I remember dungeons and chains, but never in the context you seemed to imply.
Not that I don’t appreciate creativity and effort. There was a woman dressed as Fawkes and another as Madame Maxine (on stilts!). There was a man dressed as Sirius Black in his prison photo. A young girl wearing a toilet seat around her neck was dressed as Moaning Myrtle. There were dozens of children dressed as Harry Potter or Hermione Granger or Ron Weasley. The street was crawling with Gryffindor students.
The street was crawling with children.
Even my four-year-old son, who’s never read Harry Potter (nor had seen a dominatrix) was there, brandishing a glow wand he’d been given at Borders. You probably don’t remember him, but you nodded to him when he waved at you. He also asked a few pointed questions after we’d passed you and your friends. Questions I wasn’t expecting until at least high school, but certainly not at a Harry Potter street party.
For future reference, I’d just like to recommend a little consideration and forethought before polishing your boots for a night on the town. They may be appropriate for your office Halloween party, less so for a party born of children’s literature.
All the Best,
Jared
p.s. Please tell your berobed escort that the ‘British’ accent was a nice touch, but he should probably pick one of them.
Twelfth Birthday
By: Rachel Hadas
As if because you lay
(deeply embarrassing) inside
my body, I could (inconceivable)
follow your swift thoughts into their blue
immersion even now,
stilettoes flickering, or schools of fish
maneuvering, first clear and then occluded,
though now and then a piercing gleam cuts through;
as if the snow reflections that glaze
the winter afternoon to porcelain
could penetrate the secrets of a skull
that happens to have lodged (improbable)
inside me once. Your liberation
twelve years ago today is the occasion
you and your friends are celebrating now
behind a door that’s firmly shut.
The fantasy you’ve lately been devouring
features an evil mage with hourglass eyes.
Last week, when you were furious at me
(I must have thrown some precious thing away),
you swiftly slipped into your parents’ room
and turned the bedside clock an hour ahead.
Discovered as the culprit, wickedly
you smiled. You knew time was my enemy.
Ian is being especially cordial after his stint on the naughty-step. He didn’t want to eat at the dinner table, but now he is, though slowly. He smiles and makes congenial conversation between—through—bites of fried shrimp.
‘How is your dinner? So…how was your day? Mine was good, because I’m with you!’ I’m not fooled, and remind him to eat.
Kelly has finished and is cleaning her bowl at the sink. I’ve matched my pace to his, because it’s less frustrating to eat and remind than just to remind. I rest my fork against the bowl and wait, but not for long.
‘Daddy,’ he says, crunching, ‘you have to keep eating. See? Mommy’s done and so you have to eat. It’s not just for little kids, it’s adults, too. Adults have to eat, too.’ He tilts his eyes downward as he brings another bite to his mouth.
‘And also I love you.’ Bite, chew, chomp.
