Saguaro

Boobs.

That’s the word that encapsulates the 5th grade for me. The runner-up words are “training” and “bra.” Well, there had been no training. Boobs were happening—with each swish of the pastel blue gel pen I used to take notes in class, and every time I walked through a doorway and banged a nipple on the doorknob. For a kid who didn’t feel she’d had enough days of hopscotch and tag, boobs were a personal attack. I was a 12-year-old pouring into C-Cups, much to the horror of every mom chaperone on our field trips. I cringed as each one eyed me.

When October rolled around, I had a dilemma on my hands. While most of my classmates could wear store-bought costumes with their reasonable body proportions, I was stuck in a limbo—too sultry for kids' costumes and deeply embarrassed by adult women’s costumes called things like “Sexy [BLANK].” The one ace in the hole I had was … I had a mother who could sew.

My mother had been attached to a Singer most evenings. The 90s didn’t have ASMR, but it did have the rhythmic whir of the sewing machine and my mother cursing. If your brain wasn’t set on imagining you were a member of the X-Men for hours, it would put you right to sleep. Each year, she let us pick out Simplicity costume patterns, and we would delicately take out the thin brown paper outlines of each cut needed for the project, cutting and pinning them together on our living room floor. We’d been peasants, princesses, figure skaters—even a sheep once.

My mother’s other skill was driving my sister and me to lessons all over town in her GMC Safari Minivan: children’s chorus, karate, Girl Scouts, piano, flute, and whatever else would make us impressive. My parents had been divorced since I was six, and my mother decided child support should be used to make us the most talented motherfuckers on the planet.

So, the thing I saw every day without fail was the radio antenna on the hood of the van adorned by a saguaro cactus wearing a bandana, sunglasses, and a cowboy hat. ​It amused me to no end, the dramatic reactions of the cactus as my mom drove me through the suburban sprawl of Chandler, Arizona—its two arms flailing behind it. Like it was constantly late. Hours each week, I made up stories about our cactus instead of filling in my music theory pages.

I’m telling you this cactus story because, if you haven’t guessed it yet:

Yes, I wanted TO BE the cactus antenna for Halloween. The cactus was funny. If I thought it was THAT funny, surely everyone would as well. And then no one would look at my boobs!

The request to be a cactus broke my mother. Simplicity didn’t make those patterns. My instructions included “funny, cool, and REAL spikes,” which kept her up every night trying to discern what that might even mean ... She was deep in the realm of “winging it.”

In the week before Halloween, my costume was revealed to be a green jumpsuit with a hood. It was well-made, but it did not look like a cactus. It wasn’t even cactus green. It was neon. I insisted on the importance of spikes, and maybe some long lines from top to bottom for the spikes to rest on, convinced it was the detail that would finally make me read as a cactus. But my mother shot down the spikes concept, as I’d likely hurt myself sitting down or could fall on another kid in the playground.

This was my Halloween costume, take it or leave it, and I'd better say thank you.

I lay in bed on the day of Halloween, my stomach wrenched in agony. I was devastated and had slept fitfully. I could either show up to class with no costume whatsoever, and have everyone else side-eye me for being absolutely no fun, or I could show up looking like a bright green blob burning out my classmates’ retinas.

The morning of Halloween, the desire for a sugar high made me rise out of bed. I put on my neon green jumpsuit, sunglasses, and bandana. (We had both forgotten about the cowboy hat since the cactus on our antenna lost its hat on a windy highway excursion.) I posed for my mom in the living room with both my arms out, elbows turned up at a ninety-degree angle, determined to serve cactus. In class, I sat with my hood up, my sunglasses on, and my arms crossed, trying to be super duper cool.

My teacher just eyed me and smiled, “You’re very creative, Katie, as always.”

I felt embarrassment flush my cheeks for a moment before I looked around my classroom and realized I had no idea what most of the other kids' costumes were, either. I mean, yes, most of the boys were some sort of ninja or knight. Most of the girls were animals or princesses. None so specific as a mini-van cactus antenna. We had all led the charge for most of our costumes in our minds, more than what our parents and the big box stores could pull off. It was more than enough to support a happy day, even if it fell short of our imaginations.

No one ever guessed my costume. The closest that ever was hinted at was Gumby. And yet, it was one of the best Halloweens. I somehow talked my friends to trick or treat to four different subdivisions, including a trip to my home to dump a load of candy.

I didn’t need people to get it. I just needed them not to look at my chest. And for one perfect Halloween, dressed like a neon mistake, that worked.

So, to my mom, whom I never thanked for my Saguaro costume—

Thank you.

*Feature image by anasztazia (Adobe)