More Costumes: the Renaissance Faire

         When Robbie was about eight, one of the engineers at Intel told us we MUST go to the Renaissance Faire in Apache Junction.  Ours is the first Ren Faire in the circuit, because the weather in Phoenix is usually nice in February and March

         We found that after one pays the entrance fee, quite a lot of the other attractions cost.  The elephant ride, the museum of torture, all the games…

         However, the shows are free.  And people dress up.  They dress up!  In costumes!  Alert costume making mode.

         The first year Robbie dressed as a wizard and I as a merchant’s wife.  We were harassed by Ded Bob: he called Robbie pencil head, and me the Pepto-Bismol lady.  I found out that Ded Bob does not appreciate being harassed back, either.
      

Pencil Head and Pink Lady.  Robbie said the tights were uncomfortable, too.

        So I started research on Renaissance clothing.  No one wore purple except royalty.  Everyone had to wear a hat.  This was decreed by Queen Elizabeth to support the wool industry.  And the costumes got more authentic:

The dragon cape.  My costume is pretty authentic this year.

Dragon trainer

The shirt is red, and the hats have changed.  Notice the bags hanging from the belt:  no one had pockets.

Robbie's Pirate costume was a hit, and his own design.  I got hassled for wearing purple and not being an aristocrat.  Some people take the Ren Faire too seriously.

A lot of people took Robbie's picture this year. This was Pirate of the Carribean time, and he did look a lot like Johnny Depp. We found the pewter tankards at Goodwill, and the leather straps at a hobby store.

Still in purple, Robbie has his final wizard costume.  A lot of people complained about the stick: whenever we sat down they had to walk around it.  Of course, some of them were smoking at the time, which is much more obnoxious.

I kept researching Renaissance clothing.  One year I was a lady of the court, but those clothes are very uncomfortable.  So I went back to being a Merchant's Wife.  The Renaissance was the start of the Middle Class:  Nobles were not allowed to engage in trade, yet exploration had opened up new avenues for buying and selling, so the lower classes began to start up businesses.  Some of them became richer than the nobility.  

They were dressing like nobility, too, so no one could tell who was royal and who wasn't.  The Queen first passed laws against wearing certain items, like fur, but then decided to tax them.  Upstart middle class ladies could wear fur if they paid for it, and the Queen got more money for the treasury.

On Robbie's birthday, I asked Don Juan to embarrass him, so he was called up to be the whipping boy.

Robbie and I were wandering around the Indoor Swap Meet one weekend, and found a Renaissance booth.  It was unmanned, so we asked the merchant next to it where the proprietor was.  He said, "I was supposed to watch the shop for ten minutes, but he's been gone an hour.  So anything you want is half off.  I bought my black hat and a black bag with a silver pentagram.  Robbie found a great pair of boots.  

My final costume, pretty much.  Comfortable and cool.  We found the hat at a half-off sale, and I barely escaped being disemboweled by Robbie in the resulting fight over it.  He wound up with the boots, though  

When we sold the house, I told Robbie and Renata that we had to go to the Ren Faire one last time.  "I'll never be able to go once you leave, "sniff sniffle, "so this will be my last Ren Faire."  Puppy dog eyes.  "And Renata has to dress up."

Renata was not convinced, but I overrode her and shortened one of my costumes.  The great thing about Ren costumes is they are basically a big bag with a vest that laces up, one size fits all.  We told her that if we were dressed up and she was not, she would look like a geek.  We insisted that the stage performers never call anyone up to embarass if they are in Garb.  She still hated it.

I dyed the Pepto-Bismol outfit so it wasn't as glaring.  Renata still hated it.  But she sucked it up and was a good sport.  Robbie has stolen my black velvet bag with the pentagram.  Also he has ditched the stick.

   So Renta doesn't like wearing costumes.  This is the only flaw I have found in this lovely young woman, so I guess I can live with it.  As long as I still get to dress up.  And when Robbie left town, he gave me the boots.

The Second most popular holiday

         Halloween is a big deal to kids, probably holiday number two after Christmas.  My mother always sewed my costume, and when I was old enough, I began making my own.  I only remember one year when we purchased one of those cheesy, cheap rayon outfits.

         So when Robbie was born, he had homemade costumes.  For the first several years, he was at my mercy.  When he was old enough to express preferences, he came up with the idea, and I executed the design.

         The first year he was just his own cute, adorable, troublemaker self.

         The second year I added mouse ears and a tail to his PJs. 

         Third year he had a clown costume.  He noisily refused to wear the ruff (scratchy) and a clown nose (icky).  That outfit works for two years: I’d made it large on purpose.

         Fourth year he was Batman.  At the last second he refused to go trick or treating. I knew he would pitch a fit if he missed The Night, so I asked if he would go if we both dressed up as well.  So I whipped up a cape for Brad and kludged together a purple Batwoman for myself.

         He has been a dragon, and a vampire.  He designed his own Lego uniform, complete with black Lego “claws”.  The year he put together a Mr. Steed costume, he got mad because everyone thought he was Charlie Chaplin.  Obviously not fans of the British Avengers. The year he was Zorro, we went to Mexico to buy him the whip. 

Mr. John Steed, NOT Charlie Chaplin

Vampire. Wearing sneakers.  To silenty approach the victims?

Dragon.  Couldn't figure out how to make flame, thank goodness.

Lego man.

Never learned how to use the whip, also fortunately.

         Two years in a row were Power Ranger nights.  One year, the Blue Ranger, the next the White. 

I take advantage of any opportunity to wear a costume, so when Robbie was Hercules, I was Hera.  

I don't think Robbie knew what Hera finally did to Herc.

         In the fullness of time, we stopped trick or treating.  We actually never ate the candy.  In fact, I would save the candy from one year to the next and foist it off on the following year’s trick or treaters who came to the house.

         Instead we concentrated on giving treats.  We had green lights, a flashing, waving ghost lit with a strobe light. We found a talking skull on sale and nestled it within the cacti.  Some years Robbie’s friends came over and lurked by the doorway, dressed in black capes of my design. 

         I sat in front, dressed as a witch, to hand out treats.  One little boy wouldn't come near the place.  As he clung to his mother, I started toward him to give him his candy.  He wailed, “They’re coming after me!”

When Robbie left for College, I stopped decorating for Halloween.  Then we moved to a small, small town, where it is always far below freezing on The Night, so I gave up sitting outside and scaring small children as well.  I still have most of the costumes, though.

The Robbie Diaries

         We always knew  we would have an only child.  When I was in high school I envisioned twelve little reproductions following me around.  Fortunately that goal barely outlasted my predilection for bright purple lipstick.

         We enjoyed backpacking and bike riding, and we were not about to let children interfere more than humanly possible.  I went off the Pill and got pregnant right away.  My old church, the Self Realization Fellowship, would have said that my son’s soul was waiting for his vessel to become available.  If that is so, I must have one heck of a Karmic debt.

         We took off that summer for a two week backpack around Mount Holy Cross in Colorado, and I came back to see an ObGyn.  The test came back positive.  No rabbit died, I don't think.  In old movies, the rabbit always dies.

         So anyhow, the doctor told me I was indeed pregnant.  Or more specifically, “The test indicates that you are pregnant, and certain changes in your body suggest strongly that this is so.”  I guess not only do doctors not say, “the rabbit died”, they can't tell you that you are preggers until all the test results are in. 

         So I ask, “I am an avid hiker.  Are there any precautions I should take?”

         He said, “I would not recommend any 100 mile hikes during the first trimester,” and he chuckled a little.

         “Mmm, too late.  I just finished one.”

         The chuckle went away and he sighed.  “Oh, well, I guess you can't knock a good apple from the tree.”

         This would not be the last time I got that sigh.  I got another when I tried rock climbing and my growing stomach pushed me off the wall.  And another when I was hiking in Phoenix’s South Mountain Park right after a rain, and I slipped on a wet rock and fell about 15 feet. 

         The doctor would smile feebly and explain that the fetus was “fairly bombproof” floating around in his amniotic fluid, but I may have to slow down a bit in the last trimester.  I did as a matter of fact, but more because it was kind of impossible to hike in the desert when I had to pee every five minutes.  There aren't enough trees to hide behind.

         All my friends assumed that I would have a “natural” birth.  I assumed that I live in the 20^th century and we have gone way beyond natural.  When the pains started, the doctor said to walk, so I took my regular three-mile hike and then went to the hospital. 

         I am a big woman, six feet tall.  I figured I would have no problem with delivery. Everything would be fine.  I was healthy and strong and big.   My ObGyn was also not a believer in the Lamaze method: he said his wife wanted her epidural in the second month.

         Suddenly my normal, no problems, not interfering with my regular routine pregnancy complicated.  I had eclampsia.  My blood pressure shot through the roof. 

This is no joke.  Eclampsia is how Lady Sybil died in the PBS potboiler, Downton Abbey.  The kindly neighborhood doctor advised that Sybil be treated, and Lord Robert listened to the society physician, Sybil died and was freed to work for another sitcom. 

All of a sudden there were nurses, and physician’s assistants, and the ObGyn.  I had one IV in for hydration and another for drugs.  I have notoriously slippery veins, so the needles were inserted in the back of each hand, and that is just about as comfortable as it sounds.   I had a catheter and a baby monitor in the baby’s head.  A blood pressure cuff.  I was more wired up than our home stereo system.  At one point I said, “I'm glad the Lamaze people can't see me now.”  Dr. B muttered, “The Lamaze people are home in bed.” 

         After many, many, many hours, the doctor announced that I was at 10 cms.  “Good”, I thought, “If I remember correctly from birthing classes, that means it’s almost over.  The doctor straightened and gathered his accouterments. “I'll see you in two hours”    !!!!! 

         Finally the main event. The cord wrapped around the baby’s neck, the head was stuck and the doctor needed forceps.  So what else can go wrong?  The doctor told me he was about five minutes from a C Section when things finally came together.  I thought, “If I'd gone through 36 hours of labor, and THEN we did a C, I would be highly pissed.” 

         I am a big woman: the baby was a big baby.  9 pounds, 10 ounces.  No wonder he got stuck.

         Trailing my IV stands, we wandered down the hall to observe our offspring.  Every other newborn was peacefully asleep, or playing with its hands.  Robbie was screaming.  In fact for the next several months, if he wasn't eating or sleeping, Robbie was screaming.

         So I think: nine months of getting fat and clumsy, 36 hours of labor, and I get a car alarm for a kid.  Why do people do this, and why do they do it more than once?