• I'm a dietitian and let my two kids enjoy Halloween candy without making them feel guilty.
• After trick-or-treating, I let them each choose five favorite pieces of candy to save for later.
• The Candy Fairy takes the rest and leaves a small toy, making the exchange fun rather than a punishment.

Editor's note: Do you let your kids keep all their Halloween candy? Do you have them pick a few they can keep? Share in the comments what your approach is.

Every Halloween, I know exactly what's coming: two excited kids, costumes, a neighborhood full of candy, and by the end of the night, bags that seemingly weigh almost as much as they do.

They look forward to trick-or-treating for months. Every year it's the same: despite my annual request that they wait until we get home to start eating their haul, more candy than I'd like gets eaten while we're still walking around the neighborhood.

I'm a registered dietitian, but I'm also a mom. Halloween is supposed to be fun, the kind of event that becomes a core childhood memory. I want my kids to feel "normal" in the best sense of the word. I want them to run from house to house, trade candy, and enjoy the same traditions as their friends without feeling like they have different rules because their mom happens to be a dietitian.

At the same time, I want them to understand balance.

When we get home, they may each have a few more pieces. Then we dump everything out, and they choose about five favorite pieces to save for later.

The rest goes to the Candy Fairy.

My kids write letters to the Candy Fairy

The Candy Fairy takes the extra candy and leaves a small toy in exchange. My kids even write her letters and put them in the mailbox. It turns getting rid of the excess into something fun instead of a punishment.

They still get the excitement of collecting candy and choosing the pieces they really love, while having some control over what stays. I'm not deciding which candy they're allowed to keep or telling them what they should like. They get to decide which pieces are worth saving and which ones they're ready to give up. I get to avoid having a ridiculous amount of candy sitting in the house until Thanksgiving.

My daughter may be starting to outgrow the tradition now, at 9 years old, but my son probably has a few more Candy Fairy years left. Eventually, though, I hope the tradition evolves with them.

Instead of sending the candy to a fairy, we can donate it to an organization they feel good about supporting. They'll still get that sense of pride and reward, only by then, the Candy Fairy will just be Mom, celebrating an act of kindness.

I want them to still enjoy their candy

There's also a practical reason this approach works for our family: our food environment matters. One phrase I often use is, "In house, in mouth." When I say that, I mean that food is harder to ignore when it's staring you in the face every time you open the pantry.

Halloween creates a strange kind of stress for parents. We don't want to teach our kids to fear candy, but we also don't want pounds of treats sitting in the house for weeks on end.

For me, it simply isn't worth that mental energy. I'm OK with having less Halloween candy around for a few days. Another family might feel fine keeping it for a month, and some may hardly be affected by it at all. There isn't a one-size-fits-all correct deadline.

I don't believe promoting a healthy relationship with food means pretending every food serves the same purpose. My kids know candy doesn't nourish their bodies the way the foods we eat every day do. It's a treat, a "fun food." Halloween is an occasion to enjoy those treats. I want my kids to enjoy their candy and not feel guilty about it. What I don't want is one night of celebration quietly stretching into a month simply because we happened to collect too much.

To me, teaching balance means holding both ideas at once: something can be enjoyable without needing to be available in unlimited amounts. That's the middle ground I'm trying to teach my kids. To me, food freedom includes structure. Boundaries simply make expectations clear.

The extra candy doesn't have to go in the trash

Families can look for local donation programs. Soldiers' Angels runs Treats for Troops, which collects Halloween candy for service members, veterans, and military communities. Some dental offices and community organizations may also serve as collection sites, so it's worth checking local options. Some families might freeze a few favorite chocolates or save candy for baking.

The point is not that there is one perfect way to handle it.

Our rule is simple: Enjoy Halloween. Eat some candy. Pick a few pieces you really love. Then let the Candy Fairy, or a good cause, handle the rest. For our family, that feels like the right balance.

My kids get to be kids, participate like everyone else, get excited about costumes, have fun with their friends, enjoy the candy on Halloween night, and learn that food freedom and boundaries can exist together.

• I dreamed of being a mother for a long time; it is what I wanted most in this world.
• I have two beautiful children, and I think the world of them. They are my greatest joy.
• They are also my biggest burden, and that's never going to change.

My children bring me more joy than anything else. It's not an exaggeration when I say that I would do anything to make them happy.

Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of becoming a mother. I played with baby dolls and treated them as though they were real. My dream was never to have a big, fancy job or travel the world. I wanted to be a mom.

That dream came true in 2018, when my daughter was born. Five years later, my son came into the world, and my heart grew in ways I hadn't known were possible. My children are my greatest blessing, the loves of my life, and the source of a happiness I had imagined since childhood.

They are also my biggest burden.

Two truths can exist

I know my words might sound harsh. How can the people you love most in the world also be a burden? Before you judge, let me explain.

I am happily married and have been for going on 10 years. I have a thriving business, I have friends and hobbies, and we travel quite a bit as a family. I have many things in my life to be grateful for.

But none of those things bring me the kind of happiness, pure joy, and love that my children do.

But along with that kind of love comes something else. A burden, if you will. As long as I am a mother, I will worry about my children. It doesn't matter how old they get or how far away they go. They will always be a part of me, and a part of my mind will always be occupied by them.

My feelings will evolve

The worries will change, of course. Today, I might worry that they will fall at the park, come home crying about a bad grade, or have a fight with a friend.

Tomorrow, I may worry about whether they can find a job, if they are happy in their relationships, or whether they are struggling under the weight of life.

The older they get, the more I will have to accept that there are parts of their lives I cannot see, decisions I cannot make for them, and difficulties I cannot always help them overcome.

That is the hardest part. I can love them, guide them, support them, and do everything in my power to protect them. But I cannot guarantee that they will always be happy. I cannot shield them from every disappointment or make sure that life will be kind to them.

This is the burden I am talking about. Not my children themselves, but the weight of loving them so deeply that their happiness and well-being will always matter to me.

This is a feeling I can't turn off

I will never stop thinking about my children. In that sense, motherhood is a mental burden. It is the constant awareness of someone else's well-being, the knowledge that there will always be someone to worry about, even when there is nothing immediately wrong.

Sometimes, I think about the freedom of having a mind that belongs entirely to you. To be able to sit quietly, enjoy a moment, or make plans without a part of your mind wandering toward the people you love and wondering whether they are OK.

If I had only myself to worry about, I would surely still have problems, fears, and anxieties. Life would not suddenly become easy. But there is a difference between worrying about yourself and worrying about someone else, especially someone you brought into this world.

There is no real escape from this responsibility. I can be on holiday, enjoying a beautiful day, or sitting quietly with nothing pressing to do, and still find my thoughts returning to my children. The responsibility does not disappear just because, in that moment, there is nothing I need to do.

I chose this and have no regrets

Motherhood takes away a certain kind of freedom, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I wouldn't give up the joy, the love, or the privilege of watching them grow just to reclaim that part of myself that existed before I became a mother.

But I can acknowledge that something has changed. Becoming a mother has meant that I will never again experience life in quite the same way. My heart is no longer concerned only with my own happiness. It is tied to two other people, and it will remain so for the rest of my life until the day I take my final breath.

Maybe this is what it means to be a mother: to carry a love so great that it brings you your greatest happiness, and your greatest worry, all at once.

• I thought being a good mother meant being fair and treating all of my kids the same way.
• But each of my six kids has different personalities and abilities and needs their own set of rules.
• It can be hard for my kids at times, but I am no longer compelled to make everything even.

For years, I thought being a good mother meant being a fair mother. And being fair, I assumed, meant treating all of my children exactly the same.

With six kids, this seemed especially important. I didn't want anyone keeping score — or, more accurately, I didn't want to give them anything to keep score about. If one child had a certain bedtime at 9:00 p.m., surely the next one should, too. Chores should be divided equally. Consequences should be consistent. Privileges should come at the same ages.

Equal meant fair. Except it didn't.

My thinking evolved

The longer I parented, the harder it became to ignore what was right in front of me: I wasn't raising six versions of the same child. I was raising six completely different people.

One of my children thrives when given independence. Give them a responsibility and some space, and they'll usually rise to the occasion. Another needs more structure, more reminders, and more check-ins. That doesn't make one child more responsible or the other less capable. They simply need different things from me.

The same is true of privileges. I used to think that if one child earned a later curfew at a certain age, every child should automatically receive the same privilege when they reached that age. Now I understand that age isn't the only factor. Trust is built through choices. A child who has consistently demonstrated responsibility may be ready for freedom that a sibling at the same age isn't ready for yet.

Sometimes, I feel guilty

My decisions can be hard to explain when the inevitable "But they got to!" comes flying across the room. And sometimes, if I'm being truthful, the difference has nothing to do with the children at all. My youngest gets more bedtime stories than my oldest did.

That realization could easily become another entry on the endless list of things mothers feel guilty about. But my oldest didn't have the same mother my youngest has. Back then, I was younger, less experienced, and more concerned with getting everything right. I rushed through routines because there was always something else that needed to be done.

Six children later, I understand how quickly those routines disappear. I linger a little longer now.

That doesn't mean I loved my older children less. It means motherhood has changed me. The mother raising my youngest has learned things the mother raising my oldest hadn't learned yet.

I know this is the right way for me to parent

For a while, parenting my children differently felt like admitting I was inconsistent. Now I see it as evidence that I'm paying attention. My 8-year-old, who has always been an early riser, requires more sleep than some of his siblings, so he is the first to go to bed, while his younger siblings stay up a little later. It is unusual from the outside looking in, but it is what best meets his needs.

Fairness doesn't always mean equal chores, identical consequences, or the same privileges at the same ages. Sometimes fairness means giving more guidance to the child who needs it and more independence to the one who is ready for it. It means recognizing that one child may need encouragement while another needs accountability.

My children still notice the differences, of course. They are children. Keeping track of who got what seems practically written into the sibling job description. But I no longer feel compelled to make everything even.

My job isn't to make sure all six of my children receive exactly the same childhood; It's to know each of them well enough to give them the childhood they need. After years of trying so hard to be equal, I've finally realized that might be the fairest thing I can do. I won't always get it right. I'm still learning these six very different people as they grow and change—and trying to grow and change with them. Maybe good parenting was never about getting everything exactly right. Maybe it's simply about paying attention, loving them well, and doing the best I can with the mother I am today.