Clown Costumes At Midnight

Most kids had parents who made sure their homework was finished before bedtime. I had parents who specialized in 2 AM homework emergencies. If there was a midnight crisis, I was likely the one who created it, and Mom and Dad (mostly Mom) were the ones who saved me.

These crunch times usually started with me hovering by Mom’s bedside like the ghost of bad planning, “Mom, I forgot that I need to be a clown for school tomorrow.”

She’d bolt upright, not out of alarm, but resigned to the fact that bedtime could never be sacred with four children—especially with her oldest daughter’s constant last-minute panics about an assignment due in less than 8 hours. 

Yet by morning, I’d be parading into school in suspenders that used to be my Grandpa Arthur’s, oversized pants made from pillowcases, hair modeled from a handleless mop, and a face heavily painted with Mom’s makeup and some ratty old grease pencils we found in the junk drawer.

If there was a special circle of hell for my mother, it was surely the eve before my science fair project was due. 

Other kids had been growing bean sprouts in Dixie cups for weeks. I waited until bedtime the night before to remember that I needed an experiment for the fair. 

“Mom, my science fair project has to be turned in tomorrow. I still need a hypothesis and some help putting it together.”

She’d sigh and roll her eyes, asking if I had any idea what subject I’d be presenting.

I did. Space.

At this point, despite my vague project theme, we both knew the drill. She’d send me off to rummage through the workbench downstairs. I’d search for used pie tins amidst her macrame, ceramics, and decoupage materials. She questioned why I leaned on her instead of my dad for these last-minute creative thrill rides. But who else would I pick? This was the woman who, despite never having sipped a drop of alcohol, could ferment wine. She cultivated lush terrariums out of backyard weeds, decoupaged wedding announcements onto wood for happy couples, and somehow turned my panicked scraps of an idea into something award-worthy.   

My classmates would roll into school the next day with elaborate volcanoes that actually erupted. I showed up with a trifold poster featuring aluminum chicken pot pie tins stapled like rocket thrusters on a hand-drawn space missile (Mom made me draw the missile, at least). Every time a teacher marveled at my “attention to detail,” I’d smile and quietly send a thankful nod to my mom.

Then came the year I decided to run for student council. 

At 10:30 PM the night before my campaign speech, I pleaded with Mom, “Can you please help me write something that will clinch my win as class president? My speech is tomorrow at 9:30 AM in front of the entire school.”

After Mom refused, stating that I should have outgrown this last-minute prep crap by now, she made me draft my own speech with the promise that she would edit it. After reading my draft, she set it aside and suggested I use the Mother’s Day rendition of The World’s Best Mother that my dad ad-libbed every year at Mother’s Day mass at our parish. He assigned character attributes to every human body part to convey the heroism of motherhood. Things like “The world’s best mother has shoulders strong enough to bear the weight of financial ruin, while tender enough to cradle a heartbroken toddler.” I used this formula to add equally strong qualities of a good class president.

To this day, I credit Mom for my landslide victory, alongside the clever sign I came up with: 

There’s Only One Way. Jenée.

Yes, this is a photo of one of the actual signs. I’ve kept it as a souvenir all these years.

Schoolwork wasn’t the only reason I called in the midnight cavalry. I was also a repeat offender in the category of homesick sleepovers. The homesickness hit like clockwork anytime I’d spend the night at someone else’s house. It didn’t matter if it was my best friend, Gina, who lived only three doors down from my house, or my aunt and uncle’s home, or the Bertoncins who lived all the way in Blue Springs. At some point in the night, I was unable to stave off the sadness of being away from home. Sometimes I’d conjure enough courage to stay, but I’d sleep next to the front door so I could sneak out and run home if the homesick ache became too much to bear. If home were too far on foot, I’d sneak to the kitchen, dial our home number, and whisper into the receiver, “Mom, can you please come get me?”

And she did. Every time. She’d arrive with her hair mashed on one side, with a face that indicated, “I knew this was coming.” She’d scoop me into the car with no lectures or shame, just the hum of the engine and sleepy questions about whether I’d had any fun before the homesickness set in. 

When we got home, Mom would tell me goodnight as we walked down the hall to our respective bedrooms, as though this hadn’t become a routine she was tired of.

And then there was Dad. His midnight assignment wasn’t costumes or speeches—it was my legs.

I was convinced I had the same “legs-growing-too-fast” condition that our neighbor Dawn had surgery for, leaving both of her legs with Frankenstein stitches from her ankle to her thigh. Never mind that Dawn had an actual medical diagnosis. I was sure my leg aches meant I had a problem just as serious. So when the aching hit in the middle of the night, I’d walk to Mom and Dad’s room, crack open their door, and say in a hesitant voice, “Dad, can you rub my legs? They hurt real bad.”

Dad would respond calmly, as if he’d been waiting for my summons, “I’ll be right there, Née.”

And he was. No frustration or groaning about work in the morning. Just Dad sitting on the sofa, my legs in his lap as he rubbed my aching calves until I finally drifted back to sleep. 

Looking back, it was a tender ritual—my father treating growing pains like a medical emergency, every single time, instead of embarrassing me about my melodrama.

Though I was the main culprit, I wasn’t the only one disturbing the household peace. 

Julie should honestly be awarded the Unsung Hero Child Award. She stayed put and slept through the night, never ringing alarm bells. Plus, she was the good student—the one who actually finished her projects on time. While I was waking Mom to sew clown pants, Julie was working on her book reports.

Jerrod had one unforgettable middle-of-the-night incident when he suffered post-traumatic amnesia from getting punched in a fight at school and hitting his noggin on a concrete floor. For hours, he kept asking about the bracelet he was planning to give his girlfriend—as if each time he saw it was the first time.

“Wait, who is this for? Did I buy this?” He’d repeat the same questions minutes later. Mom and Dad cycled between worry and exhaustion, but Jerrod’s sincere confusion was met with my parents’ compassion every single time.

And poor Jason. He was plagued by insomnia for a significant part of his childhood. Watching him wander into the hall in the middle of the night was both heartbreaking and nerve-wracking. Like it was yesterday, I can see the shadow of his small frame emerge, and in desperation, he would question, “Why can’t I sleep?” His restlessness kept Mom and Dad on their toes after hours, but they met his question with love and offered ideas to help him slip back into slumber.

Looking back, it wasn’t just that Mom rescued me from bad grades, public humiliation, or what to me felt like the world’s most distressing sleepovers. Nor was it Dad just kneading my aching legs as if my bones really were stretching faster than the rest of me. It was the steadfastness of them both. They showed up. Always. For me, for Julie, for Jerrod, for Jason, for anyone they loved—even in the middle of the damn night.

Truth be told, my mother should be canonized to sainthood for a host of reasons, not the least of which is crafting a clown costume out of pillowcases for her procrastinating firstborn (blurry-eyed from lack of sleep) without a single complaint.