What happened to frost on the pumpkin?
Hardly even a "trick or treat" spared, as these offspring from New York's finest private schools (and most conspicuously consuming parents) rampaged through the hallway for the masses of candy everyone on my apartment floor had laid out for their consumption. I thought perhaps a child or two might ring my doorbell, not just scream in the hall, waiting for me to open the door.
And thank-yous? Only when seriously prompted. By me. If this is 21st century Halloween for the well-to-do, I don't wonder why their older siblings have as limited a grasp of the niceties of communication as the little ones show. It makes me cringe that these are children of parents of my generation.
My parents drilled manners into me from the time I was old enough to talk. Is there something in today's child-rearing manuals that suggests there is no need for politesse? Are these the children who are going to be paying into Social Security when it's time for me to collect? No wonder there won't be any money forthcoming.
The pack rituals are evident before any of the candy has been consumed. These kids are amped on something, but it isn't the sugar. Has Ritalin reached the under-5 set? These were poster children for hyperactivity.
The only child I liked was the one who wandered into my apartment in search of the off-white Rabbit, whom he had met last year. His father was quite apologetic, but to me, his son got points for the most sincere gesture demonstrated by a child all evening.
Next year, should I repeat this charade, the kids are getting raisins. And if no one rings the bell, no one's getting anything. They'll have more than enough sugar without my contribution.