Halloween doesn’t just happen on Oct. 31 anymore. In my town, we have a monster parade that marches though the entire city, bringing joy and flamethrowers to thousands of onlookers. It ends in a massive disco dance party for the whole community — with all the people clad in costume and on their eighth wind from candy-curated sugar highs. I love this night.

Last year, I spent it alone, in the rain, crying in my Grumpy Bear costume.

It wasn’t anything tragic that led to my tear-filled tantrum in my rain-cloud-bellied costume, just your run-of-the-mill annual maternal breakdown. Too much work trying to create cheer (Hayrides! Pumpkin carvings! Bobbing for apples! 7,000 trunk-or-treat parties! Halloween-inspired dinners!) with too little appreciation. I had run the family ragged, to the point that no one wanted to voyage out into the rain for the parade — the only event that I personally looked forward to. I dragged myself out alone, in an act of grumpy defiance, but I had forgotten an umbrella, so I stood there crying like a drenched teddy bear.

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It would have made the perfect picture for a “get well soon” card.

The optics and pure irony of my weather-commiserating costume — in the rain, with tears raining down my face — was enough to make the passers-by giggle. Not in a cruel way. Frankly, the ridiculousness of it all was enough to make me giggle — which is what ultimately pulled me from my Care Bear bawl and brought me back into the world of Frankenstein’s monsters dancing to “Monster Mash” and zombies posing to “Thriller.”

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I wound up having a pretty fabulous time. Treated myself to a sweet coffee, ate candy and practiced my Care Bear Stare on the drunken people who were irritating me across the bonfire. Despite my protruding tummy (thanks, Milky Ways!), sadly no evil-blasting rainbow emitted from my abdomen to knock out the folks across the way. Still, though, it was nice to practice.

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In that moment, I promised myself that next year would be different. Next year, I, too, would enjoy my most favorite holiday. Halloween’s origin can be traced back to a Celtic festival, and the Celts had strong faith in the prophetic nature of the evening, so I was staking my claim and insisting it must be true.

We are now at next year.

Clearly, the Care Bears are of Celtic origin, because it worked! Or maybe the spirits who came out to play simply appreciated that my costume (which, let’s face it, is really just deliciously comfy footy pajamas) has a hood that makes it look as if I’m wearing an animal head atop my own. Perfect cultural throwback to the times when folks danced around in the heads of their animal sacrifices to the deities.

Why, yes, spirits, I did just slaughter a blue bear and am wearing his fur around me. Thanks for noticing.

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Every year seems to get busier and busier, but along with the new must-dos, others seem to get crossed off the list. This year, it was the hubbub around Halloween. We went to a kid Oktoberfest; we passed on the pumpkin patch. We have yet to carve our Trader Joe’s pumpkins, but that means we also avoided the premature rot, tears and need to carve yet another set of pumpkins. No bobbing for apples means no spreading strep throat across the entire kindergarten class. (I have no idea whether bobbing for apples was the culprit, but I’m blaming it for the illnesses that consumed my household in early November of last year anyway.) Rather than decorate the house myself, I bought my son paper with perforated cutouts and tape. We turn off the TV and put him to work. He’s loving it, and I get to sit on the couch alone for a moment. My kids are wearing last year’s costumes (and are totally happy about it). And so am I.

This year, Grumpy Bear returns to the parade. It’s tonight, and based on how the holiday season has been going so far, I’m pretty confident we won’t have a repeat of last year.

The family is excited, and we have made plans to join the parade, meet up with friends and dance with monsters.

And if our plans fail and soaking wet, tear-stained Why-Do-I-Even-Care Bear makes a return, I’ll have someone take a picture. At least then I’ll make a killing from Hallmark’s buying the rights to my “get well soon” cards.

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Katiedid Langrock is author of the book “Stop Farting in the Pyramids,” available at http://www.creators.com/books/stop-farting-in-the-pyramids.