Inside the makeshift laboratory, the mood is serious.
Instruments are lined up on the dresser: A plastic stethoscope, tubes of pinkish greenish goo, an assortment of Hello Kitty and Peppa Pig bandages.
As the doctors prep for surgery, I do as directed: “Keep your eyes closed but do NOT fall asleep.”
I feel tugs at my hair, pokes of something damp on my cheeks and the smooth roll of a waxy substance across my neck.
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“Stay still,” the surgeon orders. “This won’t hurt a bit”
Hard as I try, I cannot help shaking.
Like. A. Leaf.
“Are you laughing?” the scientist says as she emits an enormous sigh.
“Onna, how can I finish the operation if you keep laughing?”
I open my eyes to offer an apology but she has already taken off the latex gloves. She has already removed her mouth mask. She has already moved on to a new idea.
“Why don’t we just make fairy potions,” she offers, exasperated.
I sit up, wipe at the face paint and start removing the clips from my hair.
OK,” I say.
“Wait,” she offers, regaining momentum. “Let’s make a special ooey-gooey disgusting treat for Papa – with Nutella, sprinkles and eyeballs.”
Her little assistant/brother sets down his giant ball of Play-Doh and smiles. “Eyeballs!”
My husband and I are in our 60s, well beyond our prime. We have unreliable muscles, aching backs and sometimes delicate stomachs.
It is safe to say we are no longer “adventurous.” We consider ourselves careful, perhaps even fragile.
Until a small voice says, “I need to turn you into a mummy.”
Or, “Let’s go in the kitchen and blow up a volcano.”
Or, “Your turn on the pogo stick.”
On the eve of Halloween, as we retrieve the plastic ghosts and witches from the basement, my husband and I look forward to visits from the little monsters — a 7-year-old who insists we need a makeover, a 4-year-old who challenges us to a sword fight and an almost 2-year-old who needs a human staircase to reach the light switch.
We are blessed to have three robust, imaginative grandchildren.
And they are lucky to have two eager, willing and readily available lumps of clay.
They are the budding scientists, the future chefs, the surgeons in training, the apprentice artists and, always, the masterminds.
They are the Drs. Frankenstein.
And we are their monsters.
We are putty in their hands, experiments waiting to happen, human pets, if you will. We are “bad guys” to their world-saving mermaids. We are audiences to their feats of strength, musical prowess and Ninja abilities.
We are targets for “giant Kinetic sand meteors” and human shields when Bowser threatens to “smash” onto the scene.
We are moldable, twistable, “fixable” creatures at their mercy and at their beckon call.
And we love every minute of it.
We have moved on from the physical demands of child rearing, commuting, lawncare and home repairs. If a job requires strength, endurance or even a sustained attention span, we delegate.
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But when a request goes out to turn the playroom into a “forest treehouse” or a “pirate ship,” we’re suddenly 35 again and able to move furniture in a single bound.
We have no qualms about getting down on the floor, even if it takes a good 10 minutes to get back up.
We’re OK with standing tall on a makeshift sofa stage to compete in a singing contest we will no doubt lose to “the best kid singer ever.”
We close our eyes and bite down on what we hope is nothing more than Fluff, whipped cream and candy eye balls atop a frozen Eggo waffle.
And we lie across their rough-and-ready surgical table while they administer shots, install IV ports and hook us up to “machines that will give you super power strength.”
Their ideas come from their limited life experience. They’ve watched “Hocus Pocus” several times. They are fans of Bluey, the Super Mario brand and Kidz Bop music. And the oldest spent last Christmas in the hospital with pneumonia, a holiday setback she quickly turned into playtime inspiration.
They are too young — and we are too old — to embrace Halloween’s darker side. And we’re grateful for that.
As we piece together our costumes – me a witch and my husband a wizard — we realize that when your grandkids are young, every visit is the best of Halloween, filled with make-believe, trickery and everyone’s favorite treats — sometimes piled onto an Eggo waffle.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.