One More House, Dad!

There’s a point on Halloween night when every dad becomes a combination of pack mule, flashlight operator, and candy negotiator.

You’re carrying a jacket somebody insisted they wouldn’t need. A costume accessory that lasted exactly three houses. And, eventually, a candy bucket that has become “too heavy”—although its owner has no trouble lifting it when someone offers a full-size Snickers.

Then comes the request: “One more house, Dad?” Of course, “one more house” is a flexible unit of measurement. Much like “five more minutes” at the playground.

But there’s something about walking through the neighborhood with your kids on Halloween that deserves a little extra time. Think about that first trick-or-treat outing. Your child stands on a porch, looking back at you for reassurance. You whisper, “Say ‘trick or treat.’” They say it so quietly that only the pumpkin hears them. Then someone drops candy into their bucket!

You can practically see the wheels turning.....Wait. We knock on doors, and people give us candy? And you knew about this? By the fourth house, they’re getting the hang of it. By the seventh, they’re explaining the process to you. And you get to watch that little bit of confidence grow, one front door at a time.

Halloween also gives dads an opportunity we sometimes forget we’re allowed to take: the chance to be ridiculous.

Wear the cape. Put on the funny hat. Let your daughter turn you into the least convincing prince in the kingdom. If your son needs a robot-building assistant, report for duty with cardboard, tape, and a willingness to make several trips back to the garage.

You don’t need a costume that wins a contest. You need something you had fun making together. Although, remember, Dad, your child does need to be able to walk in it. That refrigerator box may look like an excellent spaceship in the driveway, but somebody has to get it up the porch steps.

There’s a lot of good fatherhood tucked into these little moments. Listening carefully while your child explains a costume idea. Helping them work through something that won’t stay attached.

Holding their hand as they approach a house that looks a little spooky.

None of it requires a speech. You’re simply there, paying attention.

Try to give yourself room to enjoy it. Take a few pictures, then put the phone away for a while. Let your kids set a reasonable pace. Enjoy the neighbors who come to the door and make a big fuss over the costumes. Remember to prompt a “thank you,” even when your child is already eyeing the next porch. Then, when you get home, make time for the candy dump.

You know the scene: candy spread across the floor, siblings negotiating trades like tiny commodities brokers, somebody discovering that a generous neighbor gave out raisins.

Sit down with them. Ask which house was their favorite. Find out whether that skeleton really scared them or whether they were “just pretending.”

You can discuss the Dad Candy Tax, too. Expect resistance. Apparently, carrying everyone’s belongings for six blocks doesn’t automatically establish taxing authority.

Someday, they’ll want to go with their friends. You’ll still help with a costume or leave the porch light on, but your role will change. That’s part of raising them.

For now, though, there’s a small hand reaching for yours, a crooked mask that needs adjusting, and a voice asking for one more house. If there’s still a little time—and a little energy left—keep walking. That jacket over your arm can wait a few more minutes.