In our neighborhood, we do a big Halloween party at the community barn for all the kids.  I was in charge of planning it this year.  We had a costume contest, a candy hunt, a hay ride, bounce house, snacks, temporary tattoos, and a potluck banquet of various snacks.  That night, we had an adult costume party at the barn with dancing, drinks, and yet another banquet table filled with potluck goodies.

On Halloween, there’s a trick-or-treat hayride, driven by the town Mayor.  He stops at various points throughout the neighborhood and lets the kids run around gathering candy at the houses along each stop.  When he gets to our house, he instructs all the kids to run screaming up our long steep S-shaped driveway, telling them that the one who screams the loudest gets the most candy.  It’s always a riot to hear them coming.

This year, I joined the kids on the hayride, while my husband stayed home handing out goody bags to the trick-or-treaters.  My seven-year-old put on her tennis shoes, so she could “run fast to get lots of candy.”  She looked adorable in her princess dress and black sparkly high-top sneakers.  She asked for permission to run ahead of me and her little sister, covering three or four houses to every one that we visited.  She’d intermittently shout back to us, pointing out the houses that had the best loot.  My four-year-old made it to about ten or twelve houses before announcing that she had enough candy.  Then she just wanted to sit on the hayride after that, eating one of the hot dogs from the large supply donated by a kind neighbor.

When we got to our house (a mid-point in the hayride journey), my little one and I came inside.  My husband took a shift on the hayride with our energetic seven-year-old, while my little one and I stayed in.  She took off her costume and asked for some milk, and then relished handing out goody bags to the rest of the little princesses and monsters who came to our door.

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