With Thanksgiving out of the way, I suppose that most people are looking toward Christmas and the New Year — either with dread or eager anticipation.

Forgive me, however, for being hung up on the last great holiday that preceded Thanksgiving this year. It’s a holiday, at least, in my household: Halloween.

I’m still reflecting on this year’s Halloween because, unintentionally, for the first time in 16 years, my wife and I spent it alone. And with that came an air of sadness this year.

Don’t get me wrong: I like quiet time with my wife, but suddenly being alone on an evening that marked family activity for nearly two decades was yet another reminder of time marching forward for us, whether we want it or not.

Like so many things unplanned, it happened in a flash. Friends invited one child to go trick-or-treating with them here; a girlfriend grabbed the attention of another child there with little sister going along with big brother and girlfriend as chaperone — and quicker than candy can be unwrapped, my wife and I looked at each other with the stunning realization that we were the only show remaining.

And while I must admit to enjoying the quiet for the first few minutes, it evolved into an unsettling evening of great memories that focused on life in a rear-view mirror instead of straight ahead.

I still remember the lion’s outfit that my eldest son wore his first Halloween, looking cute as an infant and dressed more for our benefit and the benefit of grandparents than for his benefit.

Each year with eager anticipation, mine perhaps greater than my son’s, we would approach Halloween as something to be savored, a time to greet neighbors and to walk around the neighborhood to show off my son.

With the birth of our second child, my wife stayed home while I took our eldest child — not really a sweet-tooth fiend — around the block, often tiring him out within half an hour.

Then our daughter was born about the time that our second son discovered that this was his holiday.

It became a defining moment for him. He had always been under the spell and influence of his beloved older brother. Then one Halloween my eldest son announced he was tired and wanted to go home.

In horror, his younger brother, who has the sweetest tooth in our household, looked up at him in shock; there were many houses yet to be mined, he realized.

“NO!” he declared, announcing to his older brother and to me that he was his own man and he would trod his own path on this holiday.

So on we marched that night. And, yes, I was filled with a mixture of awe and pride at my youngest son’s declaration of independence that year.

Then, of course, my daughter joined the fray and each year I would fall in love with her again because any costume she put on reminded me that she’s an angel.

By then, my wife issued her own declaration of independence and we switched roles: she walking the neighborhood and me staying at home.

My wife quickly raised the ante on my children’s expectations by putting on her own costume to the delight of my children.

And so it went over the years: this year going with some of the kids’ friends, that year covering greater territory. Or that first year we lived in Waco in which we ventured out in a new neighborhood together, unsure of what to expect and pleased at our neighbors’ generosity.

My youngest son’s sweet tooth is hereditary and I began to enjoy the ever-larger bounty that my children collected.

They came to view me as the tax man as we spread out the candy on the floor, threw away that unwrapped or questionable candy and they dutifully paid me a cut.

But that didn’t happen this year. And my only consolation came when my daughter returned home that night, herself a little melancholy.

“I missed you,” she said to her mother.

Little did she know how much we missed her and at that moment I vowed that we would not make that same mistake for Christmas.