My children will wake up in the morning and hurry downstairs in anticipation, hoping against hope that some remnant has missed my vendetta against refined sugar, that I will not have discovered all their secret hiding places. But I have. I always do.
It was bad enough that Halloween fell on a Sunday this year. They will never believe that they ate just as much candy and may have had more fun handing it out to underaged beggars than if they had been with the scores of other ninjas, witches and princesses trolling for sugar among the neighbors. And it certainly wouldn't have helped if I had told them that my mother sometimes forbid trick-or-treating when Halloween didn't even fall on a Sunday! I doubt they'd believe me anyway.
Then again, maybe I am worse than my mother. On those years when she did allow us to carry a small pillowcase door to door down our street and around the corner, she always confiscated our loot at the end of the night. It was then combined with everyone else's candy and hidden in a "safe place," to reappear as Christmas approached and she needed something with which to decorate gingerbread houses.
This practice turned the month and a half between Halloween and Christmas into a daily treasure hunt, as her children banded together in search of the hidden candy. The moment she left the house unaccompanied (not often) or turned her back on a room, my older brother deployed teams to distract, stand watch, and search. We knew that if we took too much, she would notice. But even when we were careful and frugal, she always knew. Every day following a successful reconnaissance mission, the candy would disappear again, and the quest would begin anew.
The problem was that by the time Christmas arrived, the good stuff had been devoured, most of the remaining candy was stale (or would be once it had sat on a gingerbread house for a week), and none of it was the kind of candy that looks good on a gingerbread house in the first place. It stretched out the process, but the end result was always the same; the majority of the candy ended up in the trash.
I'm saving my kids the heartache of hoping, of searching all the desperate corners of the house when my back is turned and coming up, most of the time, hungry and empty-handed. I'm pulling off the band-aid in one quick motion rather than dragging it out so the agony lasts that much longer. It isn't fair, and it isn't nice, but I didn't make up Halloween, so it's not really my fault.
I will not say to them, however, when they turn their little, crestfallen faces toward me, that someday they will thank me for it. I know they won't. I have never thanked my mom for taking away my Halloween candy, and I never will. She may be right--I can acknowledge that much--and I am doing the same thing to my kids because it's the right thing to do. But the most I can ever expect from them, now or twenty years from now when they have their own children, is the admission that I was--that we have all been--right.
The Halloween candy has to go. Happy All Saints' Day!