Halloween tests every parent’s patience —and pancreas. I fully admit to eating candy while walking my kids from house to house. You’re lying to yourself if you don’t. If only I could get you on a sensor. I remember thinking how hard it had been to chase three kids zig-zagging from house to house while treating my own low blood glucose. Now that Owen had diabetes, I had to think about how I would handle managing my own T1D as well as his. In theory, I know exactly what to do: “trick or treat” then “test, treat, repeat.” Easy. Like juggling pumpkins…. on fire.
Act 1: The Great School Parade
Halloweenpalooza actually kicked off that afternoon with one last elementary school parade, our grand finale after eleven straight years of having a costumed child with the last name Foster march. Knowing this would be his last parade made me a little nostalgic.
It’s always an impressive production, hundreds of kids in costumes, teachers trying to maintain order, parents jockeying for the best photo spot. While I waited outside with the crowd, I glanced at my phone and saw Owen’s blood sugar trending down. Not unexpected.
When his class finally came out, I gave him our subtle “you’re going low” hand signal. Without missing a beat, I walked past him, and I slipped him a pack of gummy bears like we were two prisoners passing contraband smokes in the yard. Cool Hand Luke would have been proud.
A minute later, I saw him give the thumbs-up from across the blacktop. Crisis averted, blood sugar handled, and the parade rolled on without a hitch.
As the procession of kids marched by, superheroes, skeletons, and one very committed inflatable hot dog, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride, if that makes sense. My Halloweens were a nightmare (pun intended). Maybe I’ll entertain you with a story or two in a later post. But Owen was going to enjoy Halloween like any other kid.
I lingered a little longer than usual before heading home to prep for round two: the main event.
Act 2: Dressing the Part
I’d been working on my costume all week. Owen was going as a Pea Shooter from Plants vs. Zombies, so naturally, I had to be the zombie. He told me all I needed was a red tie—but come on, where’s the fun in that? I went all in: tore apart one of our plastic skeletons and sewed bones into my coat and pants. When Owen burst through the door after school and saw me, he nearly fell over laughing. Totally worth the hours of effort. (Also, bonus: the coat had inside pockets for low treatments. Practical and terrifying.)
As I filled the bowl for trick-or-treaters, I cherry-picked the Skittles that Owen and I might need for a low. Someone at the Mars organization clearly understands diabetes management. The fun-packs are a perfect treatment. I also snagged a few Butterfingers because, well, they’re Butterfingers.
Once both our pumps were in exercise mode, I stuck the candy bowl on the porch, wrangled my three kids, and met up with our neighbors. Between me, my next-door neighbor with her two kids, and another friend who joined just for the mayhem, we had a full-on parade of chaos.
“Can I run down to Henry’s?” Owen asked.
“Sure,” I said, how foolish I’d been to think it was no big deal.
By the time we got to Henry’s house, it was pure Halloween madness: vampires, princesses, and Marios all over Henry’s lawn while parents tried to herd them like cats. I looked around. No Owen.
“Where’s Owen?”
“Oh, they took off that way a few minutes ago,” someone said casually.
Cue the diabetes-parent panic. The streets were packed with costumes, and there was no sign of a Pea Shooter. I took a deep breath. He had his phone, but it was buried in his backpack—and there was no way he’d hear it. I’d be able to monitor his blood sugar if it plummeted, but I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Then my neighbor, ever the voice of reason, reminded me: Find My iPhone.
I have never been so happy to know my kid was basically LoJacked.
We tracked him to the next block, dashed across, and intercepted them mid-run. After a quick “You can’t just take off like that!” we regrouped and kept moving. I set an alarm to check our CGMs every 18 minutes, long enough for three sensor readings between stops. I was popping Reese’s Pieces like a pro every half hour, which, in the context of Halloween, felt like top-tier carb management.
By the third block, the kids were unstoppable. My oldest, dressed as the Kool-Aid Man in an inflatable costume, had realized how impossible it was to move. He turned off the air fan, deflating into what looked like Fruit Punch on life support. Watching a half-deflated Kool-Aid Man sprinting across lawns, yelling “Oh yeah!” was peak Halloween chaos.
Act 3: The Chaos, the Candy, and the Comeback
Somewhere around the halfway mark, I stopped worrying so much about blood sugars and started just soaking it in; the laughter, the costumes, the candy trades, the chaos. A single night of imperfect carb management wasn’t going to derail anything. If anything, it reminded me that balance is possible even when the world feels completely bonkers.
By the end of the night, we came home with candy bags heavier than I’d anticipated and stories that will last far longer than any chocolate bar. CGM alerts quieted. Snacks were counted. Laughter echoed through the house.
Exhausted but smiling, I realized that Halloween isn’t about perfect numbers or flawless planning. It’s about embracing the chaos, finding humor in the mishaps, and watching your kids’ faces light up with pure joy.
Happy Halloween, everyone.
