Last night, one of my teenagers went to a friend’s house to watch movies. My 12-year old went trick-or-treating with a gang of his friends (supervised by one of the other moms). My other teenager stayed home to pass out candy.
And I took my 8-year old daughter-dressed-as-a-bumblebee trick-or-treating.
We went with her best buddy from down the street and his parents . . . and as the kids raced up each sidewalk to ring the doorbell, I remembered the first time we trick-0r-treated in our neighborhood.
My teenagers were only five years old. My 12-year old was a baby in a stroller. I dressed the twins in costumes I made myself: a cowboy (with a horse made from a cardboard box) and an Indian. I used to be crafty and creative, you know. I dressed baby Zach as a cowboy, too, with a neckerchief and a cowboy hat.
My sister brought her little ones and we walked the streets just as dusk fell.
The boys and their four-year old cousin fought over who got to ring the doorbell at each house.
We barely made it around the circle before they were complaining that their buckets were too heavy and their feet hurt.
And there I was last night, escorting my trick-or-treater, my unexpected daughter, a child I hadn’t even dreamed of twelve years ago. Same me, same street, entirely different child.
I reminded myself that this was the last time we’d trick-or-treat in our neighborhood.
Who knew trick-or-treating would feel so much like saying goodbye in so many ways?