“Into the Embarras-mobile,” she says. “Go.”

The Embarras-mobile was an ocean blue Ford Galaxy 500 with no hubcaps, fist-sized rust holes and discolored patches of unsanded Bond-O. It was huge — with a hood like a helipad and bench seats half a mile long.

I climb in. The windshield is covered by a thin sheet of ice. My mother cranks the defroster and peers through a shoebox-sized hole in the frost.

She clicks the radio on. “Another Saturday Night” by Sam Cooke floats through the speakers. “Ugh,” she says. “Your father’s music.” She shifts it into drive and hits the gas.

My father listened to the “oldies” station with a smile on his face. “Someday,” he’d tell us, “I’ll take the car to the car wash, drive through the spray and the brushes and when I come out on the other side … it’ll be 1963.”

“That’s an odd wish,” I’d say, but he wouldn’t answer. He was far away, lost in blissful memory.

My mother turns the corner and the icy windshield suddenly shimmers with sunlight. “I can’t see,” she says.

I roll down my window and stick my head outside. “Don’t worry, mom,” I say. “I can see. Keep going.”

“Are you sure?” she says, hitting the brake.

“Yeah,” I say. The frigid air makes my eyes water. “Just keep going straight ahead.”

The collision throws me hard against my seat belt. We hit a parked pickup truck.

“I thought you could see?” my mother says.

“I thought I could, too,” I say. Now the radio was playing “Put Your Head On My Shoulder,” and I was wishing for a magical car wash.

* * *

Last week, my wife and I took the kids to the playground. After three days of bickering in the house, we needed to get out.

We pulled out of the driveway and my wife turned on the radio. A Van Halen song blasted from the speakers.

“Jeeze, hon!” she shouted, turning the volume down. “Don’t leave it on like that.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“What was that?” Gracie asked from the back seat.

“Your father’s music,” My wife said.

“Someday Grace,” I told her, “I’ll go to the car wash ….”

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When I say she gave out candy, I mean the good stuff. No “Fun Size” candy bars, no generic gum, no popcorn balls and no freaking apples. I’m talking about the full-sized Snickers and Bazooka Joe. Primo.

My parents would stand at the end of the block and wait while we performed from house to house. We had to sing, dance, tell jokes, or do something more than knock. One year that I went as Jimmy Carter and a friend was Ronald Regan. We went from house to house performing the mini “debate” we had worked out. Boy, I was a dork.

By comparison, my own kids’ Halloween is dull. Last year, Grace wore a Snow White dress that she already owns. Paired with her red ruby slippers and blond hair, she was a mish-mash of fictional characters (I called her Snow White in Oz). William wore an Old Navy dog costume that was just a glorified coat and hat.

Strangest of all is the trick-or-treating. We went to Main Street around 4:00. The shopkeepers “decorated” (if a skull Xeroxed to orange paper counts as a decoration) and handed out candy to the kids. The whole thing is profoundly strange. First, we were out during the day! What the hell? Secondly, we visited stores, not people’s homes. Nothing says “Halloween” like a bag of Twizzlers from the head shop. However, Main Street was packed with kids and their families, so I guess we aren’t the only strange ones.

We got home around 7:00, and that’s when I performed the Saddest Part Of Halloween. Gracie has a peanut allergy, which means I must divide her loot into two piles: “Edible” and “Lethal” (see above). It’s sad to deny her a portion of her candy, but even sadder to slam an EpiPen into her leg and rush to the ER.

So, that’s our Halloween. Different than I remember, but still fun. Mostly.

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I’m the parent of that kid.

Do you know the kid who stares at his feet while everyone else sings at story hour? The one who won’t sit on Santa’s lap or acknowledge a seldom-seen relative? Do you know that kid? That one puttering in the sandbox while the other kids enjoy the bouncy castle? I know that kid.

He’s my son. And he wants to play soccer.

He doesn’t have the eye of the tiger. More like the cheekbones of a meerkat. So when #8 slipped into his jersey and doll-sized shin guards, dad was nervous.

“How much did this cost?” I asked my wife.

“Fifty dollars for eight weeks.”

“We could have just tossed two twenties and a ten into the fireplace. This will end poorly.”

“Try and be positive.”

“This will probably end poorly.”

The coach called them in to stretch. William sat in the semi-circle and reached for his toes. He reached for the sky. He lined up for a turn at kicking the ball. I skittered across the edge of the field, snapping pictures wildly, certain that the photo op would end soon. And abruptly. With pouting.

He ran and kicked, taking his “position” on the field. I’m felt optimistic. Just as I snapped the photo to the left, he walked off of the field. “I quit soccer,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling strangely vindicated. “See?” I thought. “I knew it.”

“Everyone is faster than me,” he said.

“You’re doing awesome, William.” I said. “I saw  you running up and down and getting some good kicks! Look, here comes the ball. Now, go out there and get it! Here it comes!”

He was still. Poof! The Devil of Disappointment appeared on my left shoulder. Zap! The Angel of Optimism on the other. “What did you expect?” said the Devil. “Another typical day with William. Get used to it.”

“Just hold on,” said the angel. “Give him a minute. Let him work it out. He’s almost there.”

Five seconds passed. Then ten.

William ran out onto the field.

“See?” said the angel.

He made two more trips to the sidelines, but always went back out onto the field. That night, I asked him for his favorite part of the day, as is part of our routine.

“Soccer” he said without hesitation.

Yeah, he’s a meerkat. But he’s the baddest meerkat you ever saw.

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