I’m told that ours is a market economy — driven by supply and demand, or end-stage capitalism at its finest.

But I find that around this time of year, as plastic skeletons hang from suburban rooftops and air-stuffed Jack-O-Lanterns droop in the October wind, things get a bit more banana republic. Or, more of a Banana Laffy Taffy Republic, I guess you could say.

For I, the parent, am the reluctant chair of the Federal Candy Reserve, riding out market fluctuations in candy costs and performing quantitative easing to pump treats into the neighborhood market, only to be left with a glut of D-tier sweets when the sugar bubble bursts.

What I’m saying is that it’s a supply-side nightmare over here on Oct. 31.

To be honest with you, it starts quite a bit earlier than Halloween night, as I’m forced to purchase tremendous amounts of candy to keep up with the demand. We get dozens — nay, hundreds — of trick-or-treaters, and since our kids run off with an ungodly amount from their own transactions, I feel compelled to at least try to make up for it on the distribution side.

In the grocery store, I look at the aisle full of options. Prices have gotten ridiculous lately, so I stare longingly at the cheap stuff. But I have too much shame and am known to too many neighbors to hand out circus peanuts.

I go overboard on this first trip and buy a giant bag of the best treats on offer — mixed Snickers and Kit Kats, tiny bags of Skittles and boxes of Nerds. It’s like $50. But I do it, and I feel good — or good-ish, anyway, considering I’ll never be one of those Rockefellers handing out full-size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup packages and movie theater boxes of Mike and Ikes.

“Do not eat any of this,” I hiss to my husband when I get home, holding up the bag of candy. “It’s for the trick-or-treaters.”

“Suuuuuure,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

So then I buy bag two, which cannot and will not be as fancy or huge as the first. They’re Blow Pops. I know the parents — picking gum out of their daughter’s hair for months — will hate me.

I cleverly hide this bag. Perhaps too cleverly, as there have been occasions when I can’t find the stash come Halloween.

During the next couple of weeks, I’ll sneak peaks at the candy, if I can find it. It occurs to me that there’s no way that’s enough candy for an entire night of heavy trick-or-treating. We ran out last year, didn’t we?

This third purchase is a modest bag of Hershey bars. Respectable. The little black dress of Halloween treats. Now, I think, we certainly have enough. We might even have too much.

I remember that the reason we ran out last year is that, as I got desperate near the end of the night, I started stuffing three or four pieces of candy in every kid’s basket.

On the big night, I’m nervous. Am I giving out too much per kid? Am I not giving out enough?

As inevitably happens, my children will amass a stockpile of candy high enough to give a sugar rush to an invading Mongol horde. There’s only so much I can steal from the bag at night while they’re sleeping before they notice a distinct absence of Almond Joys.

But there’s a glut, and my kids are Butterfinger billionaires. Now, not only do we have the kids’ winnings to deal with, but we also have leftover candy from the kids who took one look at the boring chocolate bars in the bowl and choked out a “thanks.”

Over the wind floats a warning to their friends: “They’re giving out lame candy there.” We get no more visitors.

The result? An overabundance, stomach aches all around and an early start on the holiday weight gain. But what are you gonna do? That’s just the way laissez-faire capitalism goes sometimes.

Every October, I set out to regulate the candy economy. But by the beginning of November, I’ve accepted that some markets are simply too volatile to control.