It’s Halloween.

In a matter of hours, we will be walking the streets of our neighborhood with two excited boys who have been counting down the days of the month to say those three famous words…”Trick or Treat.”

Now that my youngest is almost four, I realize the days of dressing like a cute-little-something are over. No more.

We’ve packed up the alligator whose mouth seemed to swallow Hayden’s head, and said goodbye to the fuzzy red Elmo suit with the bright orange nose. The peapod infant costume is now with all of the first-year baby mementos in the attic.

Griffin’s clown suit that he wore as a one-year-old is gone, too. He won’t remember that Halloween. Our little clown slept in his carseat as we showed him off to his grandparents around town. I remember propping him up for a photo, but he didn’t budge.

This year is different.

This year, it’s all about getting the bad guys. Star Wars characters, complete with weapons, and turbo blasters. Masks and helmets and capes and boots. Nothing fuzzy. Nothing sweet. No Elmo noses.

I’m ok with my kids growing up, because each day brings new memories. But some things are tough to let go. Yet, we do. And new memories are born.

Like watching them ring our neighbor’s doorbells with anticipation, thanking them quickly, then comparing notes on what got tossed in their bags as they run ahead to the next sugar stop.

Or watching Griffin say a bashful hello when he sees the girls from his class dressed in their finest princess attire.

Or watching the boys tear into their treats back at home, promising with each Kit-Kat they’ve devoured that it’s “the last one, Mom, really.” Of course, there’s always one more.

As there should be.