I’m the marvelous mom of the West

I feel like a “10” on the motherhood scale. In a game in which whatever you do seems wrong, I did the right thing. I made my daughter a costume for Halloween.

If you are a busy, overworked creature and do the logical thing, you go to the drugstore and buy a plastic costume. Then you feel guilty when you see all the other Bart Simpsons and Ninja Turtles in the school parade. If you rent or buy a fancy, expensive costume, you feel guilty for buying your way out. If you pay someone to make a costume for you, you feel incompetent. If a friend offers, out of the goodness of her heart, to make a costume for your child, you feel indebted and inferior. Motherhood: the game you can never win.

But this year, I beat the odds makers. In Vegas they were betting 3 to 1 that I’d come out a Bad Mother.

The challenge began last spring when we got our dog Lucy and everyone said that she looked like Toto. My daughter Hannah decided she would be Dorothy for Halloween. We had Toto. All we needed were the blue-checked pinafore; the white, collarless, baby-dollsleeved blouse; the big straw basket; and the ruby slippers.

Hannah supplied the long dark ponytails and the freckled nose all by herself. But where do you get ruby slippers? Not here. Not even in Kansas anymore.

And for that matter, where can you get a girl a blue-checked pinafore? Have you looked at girls’ clothes lately? Black spandex skirts — no problem. New Kids on the Block T-shirts — a store full of them. Imitation velvet dresses just like the ones those nice ladies walking the streets wear — come and get ’em. But gingham checks haven’t been seen on girls since Holly Hobbie went Hollywood.

Of course, I could always sew one. I have a sewing machine. I went to adult school in 1969 to learn to sew. That was the same year I learned to bake bread. See, I was going to make everything. I was going to make clothes out of my leftover bread.

After I made two drawstringtop dresses out of two Cost Plus Indian print bedspreads, that was it. I covered up the sewing machine. Next stop: tie-dye class.

The sewing machine is sitting in my office with my mail, my stationery, my business cards, my computer disks and my computer paper on top of it.

In my mind, the sewing machine is a lot like the computer. When it works, it’s a miracle. Garbage in, hemmed skirt out. But you can easily lose a whole day’s work trying to access the bobbin.

So when I was faced with the search for Dorothy’s clothes, I didn’t turn to the sewing machine. I turned to my computer network. It has a place where you can ask for help from experts. People are always coming up with spare modems for a pal in a pinch. So I asked for help in finding a Dorothy costume. I should have known better. I could have gotten a laser printer out of those geniuses, but a lousy pinafore was not in the chips.

The Salvation Army saved the day. A voice from beyond — perhaps from Glinda, the Good Witch of the North — said, “Go there, you will find it.” I walked into the Salvation Army store and there, among the long rows of polyester pantsuits, my items twinkled on their hangers — the way things do in a cartoon.

First, a row of sparkling stars formed above the baby-doll blouse — only a buck and a half! Then, I followed the rainbow to the blue-checked sundress. Two bucks! All I had to do was seam-rip the bodice, re-sew the straps, take six inches out of the back and we had our Dorothy. She won’t be wearing ruby slippers, though. Hannah says nobody wears ruby slippers these days.

When she trots up the yellow brick road in her white flats to your house tonight, throw her an extra Fun Size Milky Way. Tell her it’s for her sainted mother.

This column originally appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle on Oct. 31, 1990.

I walked into the Salvation Army store; and there, among the long rows of polyester pantsuits, my items twinkled on their hangers — the way things do in a cartoon.