I threw out the rotting, carved pumpkin today, the last vestige of this year’s Halloween. It was time. The inside had blackened. Not in a cool, eerie Halloween way. More in a way that would prompt the neighbors to think I was foreshadowing the length of time my Christmas lights would be up.

It’s possible I was holding onto the pumpkin because this Halloween was the end of an era…the last year my youngest child will trick or treat. (It’s also possible I completely forgot about the hollowed gourd and somehow remembered today was garbage day.) But let’s go with the nostalgic symbolism for a moment.

The last year as a parent of a trick-or-treater. I found these Waldos at my house briefly.

Halloween and the ritual of ringing doorbells and demanding candy of strangers has always been one of my favorites. And I can clearly remember all the various stages of Halloween as a parent.

There’s the “look I have a baby and am going to dress her in something adorable, and likely pull her in a wagon and come to your door and beg for candy, even though my child has no teeth yet.” Yes, I did this. Don’t judge. And, I absolutely had the cutest leopard, penguin and pea in the pod ever.

My first Halloween as a parent…I definitely took my toothless baby trick or treating.

Soon, they could walk on their own, and carry their own personalized Lillian Vernon pumpkins and ring doorbells. I call this the “I want to trick or treat by myself, but you need to walk to the door with me, in case there is a barking dog or doorbell too high for me to reach or a grown up dressed as something scary who may or may not be wearing a costume” stage.

This is also the start of the “I don’t want to wear a coat to cover my costume even though it’s 37 degrees with snow flurries” stage. I’m informed, somewhat ironically, given the character’s backstory, that Cinderella does not wear a hand-me-down parka. Thanks to my crafty mother, I conquered this stage, for a few years anyway, with a floor-length baby blue and silver lamé cape. So, while Cinderella does not do a puffy coat, Cinderella (including all three of my daughters and at least one of my nieces) absolutely rocked the matching cape.

Then there is the “you can come with me trick-or-treating, but you have to stay on the sidewalk, and stop reminding me at every stop to say thank you or I will run ahead of my slower younger sister, and force you to make the Halloween version of Sophie’s Choice and see which one you choose to follow” stage. This stage is really only fun if you have another parent to walk with you for the inevitable zone defense you have to deploy. And if you have wine in your travel mug.

Then comes the “Mom, you are NOT coming trick or treating with me…that’s SO EMBARASSING” stage. Despite my offering that I picked up a cute new Halloween T-shirt at Target, I am shunned. But that’s ok…I get tagged back into action for the inevitable stop at our house for hot chocolate, and initial scanning of the loot, including a report out on who is giving out full-size bars, and who thought giving out Bit-O-Honey was ok.

Somewhere around this time comes the troubling parental “why are there no costumes for girls age 10 or over that don’t have the word ‘sexy’ in front of them?” stage. Sexy Mario? Sure, we all want to see the video game character reimagined with a teenage girl in half overalls and thigh highs. Then my favorite: sexy Indian…both inappropriate AND culturally insensitive. And, of course, sexy corn on the cob. I prefer to call it Sexy Maize.

I was ever happy that my youngest and her friends decided for their trick or treat swan song to all dress as Waldo, as in where’s? Decidedly not sexy, but cute and practical…down to the knit hats. When she got home, she tossed me a box of Milk Duds, my favorite. “I wasn’t going to pick these, but I remembered you liked them, Mom,” she tells me.

And thus marks the end of the “root through your bag and toss your mom her favorite candy” stage. I’m going to miss it.