The Pikachu Costume: Part 1

Horror story, comedy or drama?

Oct 07, 2022

Greetings! It’s spooky season so I’m switching things up. This month, I’ll be publishing a two-part essay. You are currently reading Part 1. Stay tuned for Part 2!

Have you ever committed to something and wondered, “What the f**k was I thinking?”

This time last year, when the air was crisp and the leaves in Little Italy park made a satisfying crunching sound underneath my feet, I started writing a novel. The idea had come to me in the midst of the pandemic, and I had spent months researching, thinking, walking and talking about my concept.

I was writing in bed one Sunday morning about my main character who didn’t know how to access her joint bank account. This made her a bad feminist, I know. I was about a thousand words into my project when my six-year-old came into my room and announced an important decision.

“I want to be Pikachu for Halloween.”

When a child makes a decision about a Halloween costume, you have to seize the moment. It’s a crucial moment where you and your kid reach a mutual understanding that this is it, the decision is final, and once the costume is ordered it’s too late to change your mind. It’s The Halloween Costume Agreement. So I closed my novel project and we searched for Pikachu costumes on the Internet.

We scrolled and scrolled, zoomed in, zoomed out, clicked and searched for the perfect costume far and wide. All we saw were yellow, shapeless creatures that claimed to be our beloved Pokémon. If only they were. They were overpriced. They were sad-looking. The fabric seemed thin, like it could rip with one harmless trip over a rock on the ground. Tripping over things is an integral part of childhood. No. Those options wouldn’t do.

“Hey!” I said to my six-year-old. “Why don’t I MAKE your Pikachu costume?” My kid’s eyes, previously focused on the computer screen, turned towards me in shock.

“Mom,” he said, frowning. “You can’t even repair my pants. I’ve been asking you to fix them and you never do.” He was right. I’d been meaning to repair the small tear in his navy jogging pants. I mean well when I promise to do those things. But those things, aka sewing buttons or mending clothes, don’t come naturally to me. I once stapled a black shirt to fix a hole underneath my arm.

“I can do it.” I looked my kid straight in the eye and held my breath. “I know I can.”

“Okay,” he replied. He believed in me. I exhaled. How wonderful it was to have a child who believed in me 100%. “BUT,” he continued. “If I don’t like the costume I get to choose another one.” Maybe not 100%.

I thought about it for a moment. The real question was, did I believe in myself? Could staple girl become a needle-savvy witch who whipped up a costume in two weeks? One that met a six-year-old’s standards? Pointy ears and lightning-shaped tail included? I couldn’t let my kid choose a plan B either. That would be breaking The Halloween Costume Agreement. Break the agreement and you’ve lost your authority in the “once it’s ordered you can’t change your mind” department forever. Except this time, I wasn’t ordering anything. Gulp. There couldn’t be a back-up plan. I had to make it work. Failure wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to let my kid down either. I’d neglected my mending duties long enough. Time to make ~~the impossible~~ magic happen.

“Fine.” We pressed our thumbs together to seal the deal. That’s me I guess. Go big or go home.

And that’s how I went down the rabbit hole of costume making and forgot about my novel project for a year.

- END OF PART 1 -

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving to all those celebrating this weekend! I’m grateful for you, dear readers. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy days to read my stories. It means a lot.

Also, it’s a full moon this weekend. Those who know, know.