by Rita Mcconnell

Created on: October 14, 2009

Growing up, my brother and I had some of the best Halloween costumes ever made. Robin the Boy Wonder, a bride to rival Vera Wang, a 1960's Martian visitor, Princess Leia from the Empire Strikes Back in full "Dinner with Darth Vader in Cloud City" regalia. We were once even a pair of dice.

Our costumes were rarely from a store or a box. Mom could make something out of anything. I even remember one night she stitched my brother into a mummy suit minutes before trick-or-treat was set to begin. We had to cut him back out after we collected our loot.

Once I had my own children, it was a tradition I wanted to continue. I also saw it as a way to save money on costumes, and a way to recycle, or up cycle as some call turning one thing into another these days.

After all, it was just sewing. How hard could it be? Just in case it was more than I thought it would be, I began in August. That was plenty of time.

I started with the bride's maid dress from my brother and sister-in-laws wedding. Certainly that had to be enough material to clothe a two-year old and a three-year-old in full Renaissance princess. I went to the store, got the pattern, unzipped the seams on the dress - I was doing well. Then I laid the pattern out on the material.

It wasn't even enough for a suitable princess dress for a two-year old Medieval maiden.

Off to the fabric store, where I got truly creative and things got expensive, with different shades of the primary dress colors for insets and rick-rack and bric-a-brac for trim and crowns. Delusions of grandeur. Or of needle work.

I wanted to surprise my mom, as well as the girls, with some amazing princess dresses. Turns out people sewing in the Renaissance, and my mom two decades of Halloweens ago knew something I did not: how to read a pattern.

I cut the fabric to the pattern pieces, and started to sew them together as the pattern suggested - I was even smart enough to realize the pieces needed to be sewn on the reverse side. Then I looked at how the puffy shoulders with the long dangly princess sleeves needed to be put together. And I panicked.

But I tried anyway. After tearing them out for the third time, it was official. I had no idea what I was doing. Time to call in backup.

Surprising my mother and children with my domesticity was a pipe dream. I'm glad. The four of us had a ball that month of October, teaching, learning, trying things on various versions of gowns without getting pricked by pins. Three generations of women gathered around two amazing dresses - one purple, one green, both of silky soft material with a trim of crocheted flowers, and sleeves that swept the floor (in retrospect, maybe not the best thing for a toddled to wear running up and down the street at night).

I hadn't anticipated Halloween so much since I wore the braids and bun of Leia Organa. I assumed after the goodies were in the bags, the dresses would be off and soon forgotten in a closet somewhere. But not long after, my girls were on the hunt. They wanted their green and purple princess dresses to play in.

Now, when the highnesses float around the house in a blur of royal color and cascading sleeves, no matter that the crowns are missing jewels and have crayon marks in their places, I am treated to a memory better than all the Halloween costumes my mom ever made. That would be the ones we made together, for the next generation of trick-or-treaters.

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