The celebrations and holidays of summer are behind us and September is just around the corner. I know what’s coming next, if only because the decorations in the stores – on the shelves for weeks now – encourage us to do it up right.

Hallowe’en.

The stores have lined their shelves with candy already, tempting us to buy early and be prepared, knowing we’ll eat it all within the week and have to buy more.

I’m not falling for it.

The decorations have surfaced, as frightening (and kitschy) as ever, encouraging us to let spiders dance on doorways and make ghosts watch from windows.

Sooner or later I will buy some, to add to our growing collection, because it’s fun and I know Connor will be into it this year.

And then there are the costumes.

They hang from rods, on plastic hangers in their plastic packaging, many made from plastic themselves.

I knew nothing of store-bought costumes as a kid. My mom – ever devoted, ever creative – made our costumes herself and in doing so set a standard I never thought to question.

Until I had a child, that is.

And realized I couldn’t sew (and had no desire to learn).

On Connor’s first Hallowe’en, we went back and forth on whether to get him a costume. He was just over four months old at the end of October – not exactly trick or treating age. But we wanted to dress him up. My husband, never one to cheat on anything that provides an artistic opportunity, was determined to make a bumblebee costume. We searched for basics to form the costume core and accessories to bee-ify him. Nothing was quite right for my husband’s standards and so we abandoned the effort. Shortly before the big day, I came across a costume on a classifieds site – it was a good price for an absurdly cute ladybug costume from Old Navy, so I bought it.

Yes, he’s a boy. I didn’t care. That costume was cute.

Come October 31 I stuffed my son into it and dragged him down to a local children’s store for their Hallowe’en party. It was great, except for the part where my son screamed through the whole thing. I gave up, stripped the ladybug off him (without even getting a picture) and took him home, where we spent the evening desperately trying to get the dog not to bark every time the doorbell rang (a useless effort at the best of times, never mind on Hallowe’en with all its tricks).

By the second year I realized any desire my husband had to make something had long since faded when, much to my surprise, he came home with a yoda costume. From a store. I thought it was great because it gave us the opportunity to spend many hours practicing our yoda impressions.

“Wear a store-bought costume, you will. No crafty bone in her body, your mother has.”

You get the point.

Anyway, aside from that added bonus it was cute, which was the new standard. And it looked pretty good with a red clown wig, too.

Then last year a Spiderman costume caught my husband’s eye, confirming our abandonment of any pretence about making a costume ourselves.

This year is no different. I came home one day several weeks ago to find a very happy small boy dressed as a fireman. He and his dad had been out and found this costume in a store. With a fireman a clear choice for a costume, they bought it. And so it hangs in the closet downstairs, awaiting its turn to parade around the block.

I had no involvement in the procurement of this costume. I didn’t help my child come up with the idea. I didn’t sew a single stitch. I didn’t even buy it – on its plastic hanger in its plastic packaging – and bring it home so my toddler could look forward to being a fireman for Halloween.

I can’t sew, and I don’t want to. I might get out my black eyeliner and help him look coal-smudged and authentic, but that’s about the extent of it.

I loved my Hallowe’en costumes as a kid. Looking back, knowing how much time and love went into creating them, I remember them especially fondly. But I’m not going to make costumes for my kids. That’s not the sort of mom I am.

What I will do – like my mom did with us – is help my son get dressed on Hallowe’en and walk with him up and down our street delighting in our neighbours’ decorations. I will watch his face as he collects candy in his bag for doing nothing except showing up on someone’s doorstep (and looking cute). When our doorbell rings, I will run with him down the hall and admire the other kids’ costumes – not caring where or how they got them – and then let him choose a candy bar to add to their haul.

That’s the sort of mom I am. And it is enough.

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