(Editor's note: This article was originally published on Babble.com. It has been reprinted here with permission. The Walt Disney Company is the parent company of both ABC News and Babble.)
Halloween is on a Monday this year, you guys. For the majority of the population, this isn’t a big deal. But for us parents of young children everywhere, we are clenching our teeth right about now in preparation for the havoc Halloween on a school night will wreak.
Please, allow me to explain …
Everyone loves Halloween, right? Of course they do! Candy, costumes, and shenanigans; children staying up way past their bedtime; teeth being ruined, thanks to delectable goodies packed with loads of red dye #5 … what’s not to love?!
Like most American families, Halloween is a pretty big deal in our home. My kids start talking about it well before October rolls around, planning their costumes and mentally selecting the best trick-or-treat routes months in advance.
“Is it October yet, Mommy?”
“No, baby, it’s still March.”
“When’s October?”
“In seven more months.”
Meanwhile, I fantasize about all the candy I’m going to consume (possibly by dipping into their candy stashes long after they’ve gone to bed).
So yes, for the most part, Halloween’s a blast. In my house, we get a kick out of dressing up in silly costumes, buying spooky decor for the front yard, and carving pumpkins. But let’s be real: If you have kids 10 and under, there are a few things that will inevitably happen every time Oct. 31 hits. No matter how much prepping and planning goes into it.
If you’re anything like me, the night goes a little something like this …
Sometime in early spring, my children start talking about what they’re going to be for Halloween. We brainstorm various costumes, we get excited over the possibilities. And as October draws near, we count down to the big day and do some costume test-runs.
We are prepped and ready to go.
After weeks, if not months, of mental (and actual) prep, Halloween day finally arrives. But suddenly, my son no longer wants to be a pirate. My younger children still like their costumes, but they’re already torn or dirty because they’ve been wearing them around the house, eating in them, and wearing them to the grocery store for the better part of three months.
The biggest portion of this stage involves me yelling, “No, I am not going to get you another costume; that is your costume, make it work," at my oldest while consoling my middle child because his flimsy Iron Man mask is cracked before he’s even had a chance to trick-or-treat in it. Oh, and I have another kid -- she’s 3, who is busy filling the toilet with an entire roll of toilet paper.
Or wrapping herself in it:
Luckily, I have the foresight to predict all of this will happen and have stocked up on M&Ms to shovel into their little, complaining mouths while I guzzle a special Halloween drink called cabernet sauvignon.
Stage 3 usually begins at the exact moment that my husband arrives on the scene from work. There’s an energy shift -- everyone loves Daddy! Daddy’s home! -- and while they’re excitedly showing him their costumes, I quickly fill up large bowls of candy to hand out to the neighbor kids. Clearly, I’ve done my time here; I’m looking forward to putting my feet up with another glass of wine and handing out candy while my husband carts our trick-or-treaters around the neighborhood.
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Except, for some reason, he thought he was going to get to stay home and hand out candy. Insert all the LOL’s. Um, no. While we bicker and negotiate, the kids hide behind the sofa and eat candy, and I realize I never fed them dinner.
Smiling sweetly, I lean over and whisper that I’ll make it worth his while. Knowing what that means, he quickly rounds up the kids and shouts a quick goodbye. Mission accomplished.
Approximately two hours later, my family reappears. I’ve prepared for this moment, readied myself with deep breathing, mindfulness practice and prescription medication. I am ready.
The kids. OMG, the kids. They are overtired, cracked out on sugar, and shrieking. My husband is battered, but resolute: he knows his reward will make this battle worthwhile. We soldier through, peeling our chocolate-covered Pokémon out of his costume, disarming and desugaring our pirate, and getting the glitter off our smallest child who appears to have rolled around in it.
It’s three hours past bedtime, but we have finally managed to lull their addled brains to sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be tough, I think to myself.
My husband stares at me, and I recognize his look of hunger.
It’s time for me to fulfill my promise. He walks over and wraps his arms around me.
“They’re finally asleep,” he says. “It’s time for me to cash in.”
I smile and whisper, “I saved all the Reese Peanut Butter Cups for you.”