We bought the Halloween candy early. The kids already know.

Somewhere in mid-October I decide to be responsible. The big bags are on sale. The porch bowl will need filling at the end of the month. I am a man with a plan and a cart full of chocolate that is absolutely not for us.

I hide it in the pantry on a high shelf. Behind the cereal. Behind the pasta. Behind the box of crackers nobody likes. I feel clever for about one school day.

Then my 6-year-old daughter opens the pantry for a snack and goes quiet in that specific way that means she has found treasure. My 3-year-old son does not go quiet. He points and says "candy!" like he just discovered fire.

I explain the rules. This candy is for trick-or-treaters. Halloween is still two weeks away. We do not open the big bags early. They nod. They say okay. They are lying with their whole faces.

By bedtime, one bag has a corner torn like a raccoon got to it. Three fun-size bars are missing. I find the wrappers in the recycling, which is either honesty or a lack of planning.

So now we have a system that is mostly theater. Candy stays in an opaque bin up high. They get one piece after dinner on Fridays if they ask nicely and if I have not already eaten the good ones "to check for freshness." Quality control is a real job. Somebody has to do it.

I also buy a second, less exciting bag on purpose. The ones with the weird flavors nobody fights over. Those go in the actual "for the neighbors" pile. The good stuff lives in the bin and slowly disappears for reasons that are nobody's business.

Halloween night the bowl will still look full enough. The kids will still get their costumes and their buckets. I will hand out candy like I planned this the whole time.

I did not.