This was our worst Trick or Treat turnout in the history of living in this house. It breaks my heart, truly.
Four kids. Two of whom probably shouldn't count, because they're friends' kids, and we'd see them in costume anyway.
Our street just isn't cut out for Trick or Treat. A quasi dead-end with houses on just one side. No one else gives out candy. There just isn't good ROI for the kids. The two we did have come live at the bottom of the hill and were on their way to better streets. I just happened to be on the porch when they went past. (For reference, when we lived in our apartment, two blocks away, we had hundreds of kids and ran out of candy.)
Every year I think "this is the candy for the teenagers who aren't in costume, this is the candy for the adorable little kids." We didn't even get teenagers this year. Every year I get my hopes up, buy really good candy or make goody bags, and every year I'm disappointed.
So what this means this year is that we have twenty bags of Butterfinger coated pretzel twists, and sixteen full size candy bars, that will haunt me. They'll call my name from the other room until one by one, Matt eats them. I'll have one or two, I'll admit that to myself now, but I'm not going to eat them out of self pity. Or to make myself feel better after a bad day.
I need to figure out the fine line between tricking myself, and treating myself. And that the answer to my happiness isn't coated in Butterfingers.