I always claim to love Halloween. It is the "fun" holiday, right? Costumes, candy, sugar comas? Good times.

I was talking to my mom this morning about our adventures last night, and she just chuckled and said:

"Don't you hate Halloween?"

And I'm thinking maybe I do. But just a little bit. And only because I'm tired, and I've already eaten all the Almond Joys.

Right before the fun started, I lined the kids up by the picture tree and asked for smiles. This is what I got. Whatever. Since the hubs is on a business trip, I recruited my sister, AKA Crazy Auntie Deedee to come and help wrangle my delightful children. She showed up in a fairy costume, and although she must have been freezing, she was a trooper the whole way.

I decked myself out in a Yukata (a summer-weight kimono) with an Obi that just wouldn't stay cinched, so every ten minutes, I'd find myself unwinding. It was an apt metaphor for my mental state. My friend Kim pointed out that this year, we forgot the thermos full of spiked hot chocolate. I'm not advocating drinking to get through trick-or-treating. Or wait, maybe I am. At least this year, the kids weren't face down and crying on random lawns like there were a few years ago. Why do I claim to love this holiday again?

Here's the thing I'm thinking - why is it so hard to walk in an orderly fashion, staying together in a group when you are a kid in a costume. Scratch that - when you are MY kid. Wearing anything.

You know, one day I'm going to look back at these years and laugh. Or maybe I'll just pour another stiff drink and go back to rocking in the corner.

Slow down! It's not a competition. Say thank you! Come back here. Get out of those people's house. Get up there. Stop! Go! Get out of the street. Don't poke people with your sword. Don't push your sister. No you can't eat any candy yet. I'm sorry your feet hurt. Walk. Stop. Come on. We're almost home.

I'd like to think all the other mothers felt better about themselves hearing my ordeal. My kids raced through the first half of the houses, and then fought over the stroller for the second half, complaining of various ailments. My eight-year-old's feet hurt - until we got to the next driveway, then she was off like a shot. My son's back hurt, and his bag of candy was "too heavy." Boo-frickin-hoo. He refused to let us carry it for him, because WE MIGHT EAT SOME. Which, we totally would have, but still.

My youngest sat primly on the edge of the stroller until we reached each house, and then would watch her siblings run up to the door, while she hid around the corner of the garage. Just as the door was beginning to close, she'd run up alone, and say "aargh." The treat-giver would then say "aw!" and give her extra candy, because she is little and cute and alone. And also conniving.

By the time we made it home, we were all wrung out. I gave them all a choice of one candy, and then let them sneak another, and then brushed teeth and washed faces and pushed them into bed.

And then I ate all the Almond Joys.

I'm so, so glad it is over.