How a Wheelchair Dad Made Halloween Work: Trick-or-Treating on Wheels & Accessible Fun

Some people judge a house by its curb appeal. I judge it by its curb accessibility.

For years, I wondered how a wheelchair dad could make Halloween work — until I realized that trick-or-treating on wheels wasn’t a limitation, it was its own kind of adventure. For my son Jacob, every house in our neighborhood was a potential treasure trove of sugar. For me, they were a series of obstacles — each one ending in either sweet victory or a slow, awkward retreat. We’re talking about the difference between a ramp and a single, treacherous step.

That’s the reality of trick-or-treating on wheels — where every doorstep is its own little adventure and every piece of candy feels earned twice over. If you’re a parent on wheels — or love one — you probably know the Halloween hustle looks a little different. When Jacob was younger, I used to think I was doing him a favor by taking him trick-or-treating. Turns out, he was the one doing me a favor. He was the legs of this operation.

While my wife, Rachel, or one of our friends would take him up to the door, he’d turn around, beaming, and I’d shout, “Go on, show me what you got!” He’d bound up the front steps like an Olympic gymnast while I sat parked at the bottom — the designated driver of the candy-collecting circuit. A stationary spectator in a sea of superheroes and princesses.
Wheelchair dad waiting on the sidewalk with his service dog while his wife and son trick-or-treat at a nearby house.

🎃 Trick-or-Treat Gear Tips

A quick word to the new wheelchair dads out there: ditch the hard plastic pumpkin pails. Kids get tired of lugging those around, and the last thing you need is another clumsy object in your lap.

Instead, grab reusable Halloween-themed bags from the grocery store. They’re lightweight, easy to hang on your chair, and hold a surprising amount of candy.

And do yourself a favor — get a headband light. It’s a game-changer compared to fumbling with a flashlight or trying to get the perfect angle in the dark.

🕸️ The Curbside Command Center

The best part of it all? The looks I got. Parents squinting in the dark, wondering why a grown man was just chilling at the bottom of their driveway on a Tuesday night. Kids pausing mid-sprint, trying to figure out if I was part of the house’s spooky decorations.

I’ve been mistaken for a lawn ornament, a parking meter, and even a very determined G.I. Joe. But no matter what, I was always ready — a candy-counting command center waiting for my son to return with his loot.

My power chair wasn’t just a vehicle; it was a fully equipped mobile base. Rachel and I had our system down. After every house, she’d say, “Go on, show Daddy what you got,” and Jacob, little legs churning, would come scurrying back to present his haul like a briefcase of classified documents.

Once the bucket was full, it was time for the official candy dump. At home, the living room became our final sorting station — a literal pile of sugary treasures dumped across the coffee table. I’d take charge of sorting: chocolate in one pile, fruit-flavored in another.

Jacob, now 13, is more interested in trading with friends, but he still submits to the official count. It’s part tradition, part quality control… and maybe part dad tax.

For a guy who spent 25 years in assistive technology, this might be the most practical use of my skills yet.

Meanwhile, my service dog, Hercules, sat beside me — a furry, golden statue trained to ignore tiny ghosts trying to pet him. Our cat, Maggie, stayed home, probably plotting revenge for all the attention the dog got.

🍬 More Than Just Candy

These days, Halloween looks a little different. Now that Jacob’s a teenager, he’s less interested in costumes and door-to-door adventures. Instead, we set up a small table at the end of our driveway. We sit together, enjoy the cool autumn air, and watch the neighborhood come alive.

Wheelchair dad and family giving out Halloween candy together from their driveway under string lights. It’s a new kind of participation. Instead of me waiting on the curb for my son, he’s now the one helping me give out candy. He gets to see the joy on kids’ faces when they realize they’re getting a full-sized candy bar.

I still have the best seat in the house — but now it’s less about the obstacles and more about the connection. It’s our way of giving back, of being part of something bigger.

An act of community, advocacy, and love — even if it looks like two people handing out Snickers and Jolly Ranchers at the end of a driveway.

Because in the end, Halloween’s not about how far you roll —
it’s about how sweet the view is from where you sit.