Congratulations. You’ve made it to October 31st, the Super Bowl of parental endurance. If you’re reading this while frantically duct-taping a cardboard robot costume, just know, you are seen. Or perhaps you’re Googling “how to make a tutu out of grocery bags.” Either way, you are seen.

I’m a retired Halloween veteran translation: empty nester. Reporting live from the land of serenity, vodka, and zero costume-induced meltdowns. My porch? Silent. My glue gun? Collecting dust like a forgotten relic. And my candy bowl? Overflowing with the good stuff because I no longer have to stash it behind the quinoa like contraband.

I remember your pain. I remember the suffering. Glitter in places that will haunt me forever. Costume negotiations that felt like hostage situations minus the snacks. And the kid who wanted to be a “scary ballerina ninja cat,” expecting me to conjure that fever dream in three hours with a Michael’s coupon and the sheer will to live. All while I considered faking my own disappearance.

I remember the sugar highs, the sugar crashes, the sugar-induced existential crises. I remember the Halloween parade. I smiled like a proud mom. I silently prayed no one noticed my child’s costume was held together with desperation and Scotch tape.

Now? I’m the candy gatekeeper with a vodka soda in hand, silently ranking costumes like a judge on a reality show. No more Olympic-level sprints down the street screaming, “KEEP YOUR MASK ON!” And guess what? Explaining why gutter candy isn’t part of a balanced diet? Not my problem anymore.

So hang in there, Halloween Moms. You’re doing amazing. One day, you too will sit on your porch in stretchy pants. You’ll sip a cocktail and watch other people’s children melt down over a broken glow stick.

Until then, may your costumes hold, your candy be hidden, and your glitter be minimal.

With love and leftover Reese’s, A Former Halloween Hostage