My oldest child was born scared. She used to share a room with BFam and I until she was two since both her parents can sleep through any natural disaster and burglary. A hurricane, tornado, tsunami and a thief could have their way with our possessions and home leaving BFam and I babbling, clueless idiots come morning. It is because of this, my oldest child’s sister also abides by the same set-up.

Mooter was the kind of baby who would wake up crying if we turned the television off at night. She needed that light. That noise. She still carries this trait around with her now. I didn’t get cable in my bedroom until I was thirteen. Even then, it was a birthday gift. She has never gone a day without knowing the Boomerang or Cartoon Network lineup. Take all this fear of darkness and silence, wrap it up in Sciaphobia, and you have my Moo.

Tonight was the first time she went to a real street and shopped door to door for candy. I was apprehensive, knowing my child the way I do. I honestly think her father should have known better. But we figured we’d try it anyway. She’s getting to be a big girl. And, really, how old is too old before Boo at the Zoo becomes passe?

I have this weird knack for asking, “How bad could it be?” and, within minutes, being given the answer to such a question.

The first five houses were fine. We looked to be in good shape. Little old ladies coming to the door handing out mini Nestle Crunch and Snickers bars. Kids dressed like JoJo and Captain America. I should’ve known something wasn’t right with the one house right in the middle of the street. Sitting there quietly. A middle aged woman dressed in black sweatpants and black sweatshirt waiting patiently for the little trick or treaters. One flickering strobe light dancing across the house number next to her door. Yeah. That one looked a little suspect. You know the scenes in scary movies where you know something bad is gonna happen but the little voice in your head goes, “naaaaaaaah”? Mm-hmm. I had a “nah” moment. Then you know how, same scary movie, after you have that “nah” moment, something really bad happens? I paid no attention to this mild mannered woman-in-black’s husband, also sitting quietly. Behind a tree. In a Scream mask. Didn’t notice him until a chorus of little cowboys and Incredible Hulks and miniature firemen lit up the night sky in a song of “MOMMY!” in the key of E flat. This set off a chain reaction of Mooter’s publicly unknown super power of melting into the legs of whomever she’s standing next to. In this case, it was her father.

Game over. Wrap up the candy, boys, this one’s a goner.

It was a good ten minutes before she could bring herself to talk again. Her father, chasing the thrill of sweet, sweet chocolates, passed houses on the way home. “How about that one, Moo? What about that one? That house right there? Wanna try again?” After a few no’s and not yets and maybe tomorrows and only-if-the-house-is-not-scary-and-has-no-monsters, he stopped asking. Another ten minutes passed before she spoke again only to ask, “When can we go to the zoo?”

Her father and I hoped her scary nature would be outgrown, say, before she got married and had children of her own. After tonight, we can place that hope in the same section we keep the accordian player. Olympic swimmer. Orchestra pianist. Things like that. Keep it in a dark, dry corner. Let it age with a nice finish. Have it breathe in a nice decanter. You know.