It’s the morning after our town’s annual Halloween parade and I’m suffering from my annual parade hangover.

It’s not a standard hangover, just one that comes from spending two days cooking and cleaning and preparing for the invasion of dozens of people, and then running in and out of the house and up and down the stairs making sure all our guests have enough to eat and drink and the kids all have enough bags to collect their candy.

This year’s bash was a little bittersweet, though. It’s probably the last one we’ll have. We hope to finish our move to the country by the end of the year and will no longer have our ringside seat at the parade. Somehow or other, over the years, each member of our little group of friends has staked out a holiday to host: the K family hosts us for Memorial Day, the T family for New Year’s Eve, and the H family usually has a Christmas get-together. A few of us have shared in Fourth of July gatherings, depending on where the holiday falls, but because of our location, Halloween has been our thing for years.

During our recent discussions, we realized that for various reasons, this year is going to end up being the last one of many of these celebrations. We’re moving, other families are changing, our kids’ commitments and schedules are changing, it’s just a lot of change. For the most part, it’s positive change, and goodness knows, we are still sitting on bleachers together every weekend, or blowing up our group text messages, so I’m not worried that our friendships will suffer for it. I’m just sad to see this portion of my kids’ childhood close.

As I gathered the crowd of kids in front of our house for one last group shot and jumped between floats and marching units to snap the picture, I belatedly realized that I was missing the entire group that is now in middle school and was still marching with the band. We restaged the shot again when they joined us. Later, as I was looking to share the photo with all our friends, I took a minute to reminisce about how some of those kids have been watching the parade at our house since before they could walk. I remember them eagerly picking up just one piece of candy and sitting down on the curb to eat it immediately, oblivious to the rest of the candy that was raining down around them.

I remembered years when a rain shower passed through the area, leaving puddles in the street, and the kids had to try to catch the candy before it ended up a soggy mess. I remember the years of frantically pacing in front of our little ones, terrified that they’d get too close to a giant firetruck tire. This year, I think I may have offered one or two lethargic “stay back, kids,” but at this point, some of them are bigger and more street-wise than I am.

I’ve watched as little brothers and sisters have joined us, making the move from the stroller one year, to having their hands carefully held by the big kids the next. As I looked at the faces, I realized that one of the boys that E had been especially entranced by as a child, and had actually taken her first steps at his encouragement, was now getting his driver’s license. Yet another member of the group rode by on the homecoming float, and our little group was only too happy to scream and chant his name at the top of their lungs, as he good-naturedly waved to them.

Throughout the night, friends stopped and chatted. The kids arrived back from their own floats and marching units and brought more friends with them. I walked into the kitchen to find a crew I didn’t know eagerly scarfing down pierogies and chicken fingers. When they saw me, they looked a little guilty, and one of them meekly said, “we’re sorry, they just said we could come up and eat.” I said, “Absolutely! That’s what it’s here for, take more!” Later, I realized that they were all part of the band, and I was glad they took us up on our hospitality. Those kids deserved it after playing their way up Broad Street.

Later that night, after the revelers had left, and we were surveying the house that looked about how you would expect it to look after a hundred people had been through it, and the remains of the food that everyone brought, one of the kids said, as they usually do, “Well, that was another good party.”

These are the kinds of memories that I hope my kids look back on in 20 years and say, “Those were the best times.”

It’s not all the candy that they ate or the relaxation of the “no eating in the living room” rule that leads to smooshed cupcakes on the stairs and empty juice boxes stuffed into the couch that is important to them. It’s being together with our friends who have become our family.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.