Pumpkin Patch Blues

I love this time of year. Brisk afternoons, brilliant blue skies....and most importantly, holidays. Just thinking about the impending fun of Halloween, feasts of Thanksgiving, and sweet, sacredness of Christmas makes me giddy. Those quirky rituals that my family insists on celebrating year in and year out are what makes this time of year so memorable and full of anticipation, so who could blame me when in a momentary lapse of sanity, (perhaps it was all of that cool, fresh air) I decide that my little girl, A, at the ripe old age of 20 months is ready to create some holiday memories of her own. First stop: the pumpkin patch. What better place for an afternoon breakdown, I mean, an afternoon of creating new traditions.

I check the Internet for the nearest pumpkin patch and discover one that is just thirty miles south of town. Convinced of its sincerity, I print out the directions and slip into my seasonal, but subtle, pumpkin t-shirt. A, too, puts on her pumpkin t-shirt. (Of course, they don't match...that would be too over-the-top.) I grab the directions, and we are on our way.....

Exactly thirty miles into our trip, the time we should be arriving, A begins to whine, so I offer her a pacifier then look to T, "How many miles have we been?"

"I don't know about thirty."

"It is only supposed to be thirty miles from our house."

A, who loves car trips, tosses her pacifier and whines with even more vigor. Taking our snacks for the pumpkin patch, I appease our own little pumpkin. Thirty miles later, now snack less, we finally reach our destination. Signpost number 1 on the highway of realizing that this afternoon will probably not be the picturesque Rockwell painting I am hoping for. Number 2 is soon to follow.

Travis takes A out of the car, and hand-in-hand, we begin the ascent from the parking lot to the actual pumpkin patch. All is well until A decides that she no longer wants to hold our hands, so she flings herself into oncoming traffic and flails about on the ground. Acting as if this is completely normal behavior, I pick her up and carry my screeching child to the entrance.

The scene that unfolds immediately captures A's attention. A quaint hillside has been transformed into a lively carnival. Barns are filled with jack-o-lanterns and scarecrows, watching weary parents chase their children down a steep hill, admonishing them not to enter the hayride without permission. The excitement has apparently rendered the youngsters deaf and they, of course, ignore the warnings.

"Ball!" A screams and points to a wagon full of tiny pumpkins. Sensing an excellent photo-op, I put A down and watch her walk over to the wagon, pick up the miniature gourd and toss it to the ground. "Ball!" she shouts proudly. I rush over to make sure the $3.00 pumpkin is still intact. "Pumpkin, sweetheart," I say. "That is a pumpkin. Hold it and smile for mommy." A turns from me and throws another gourd. "Smile for mommy. Say cheese."

"Cheesh," she says, looking down at the ground.

"Look up baby. Mommy wants to see your face in the picture. Hold the pumpkin and say cheese." I snap frantically,waiting for the smile that I expect one to be wearing at a pumpkin patch. I look around to see about five other sets of parents on their knees, begging, pleading with their toddlers to smile. Did I mention toddlers? Truthfully, we parents are the real Kodak moment. Asking our little ones to cease discovering the world with wonder, hold up a pumpkin, and pose on cue. All we need is the organ grinder.

I throw my hands up in defeat and find T in line for the hayride. A and I join him and soon we are sitting in the back of a wagon on bales of hay slowly plodding through the woods on our way to choose a pumpkin. A's face is actually gleeful as she bumps along, waving to those left behind in line. Finally, the picture I've been trying to get for hours. We pull up to rows of dusty vines filled with rather sad, disfigured pumpkins. A jumps down and runs toward the orange "balls", eventually tripping and flying through the air. I run to dust off her t-shirt and make sure she's all right, and before I can get to her, she is off again. "This," she says confidently, pointing to a pumpkin. T and I look around and agree that it is probably the best one in the bunch. Picking up the pumpkin we head back to the line for the wagon ride back. Things seem to be finally going as planned.

What is it they say? We plan, God laughs?? An elderly volunteer is counting us off, trying to get as many as possible into the wagon. After about a twenty minute wait, in the warm, dusty patch, he sends T, A, and me through the line, but we are abruptly turned back from the full wagon. No big deal, another one will be there soon. Unless in your twenty month old mind, you think that is it, and you will not be repeating the highlight of your day. I slowly head back to the line with A in my arms, when the reality hits her. Her lip begins to quiver and she exhales a wail that would wake the dead. I try to explain that we are next in line, but A is rolling in the dust as large tears drip off the edge of her nose. The man behind me in line laughs. I didn't get a good look at his face for fear that my glare would have turned him to stone. Finally, the wagon returns, and we take our pumpkin to the car and drive home, dusty, hot, thirsty, and tired.

The next evening we decide to start another tradition: carving the pumpkin. Surely A will love this. Running around the yard in a diaper, squishing orange gunk with her toes. We plop the pumpkin down in the front yard and begin to remove the insides and draw the outline for the eyes and mouth. A is fascinated for about thirty seconds then she runs to the side of the house, looks to me, and asks, "Dell?"

"No sweetheart. I don't think Dell would be very interested." Actually, our golden retriever would be more thrilled than A with the pumpkin carving, but I keep that to myself. A runs to the backyard to check on Dell, while T and I carve the pumpkin alone.

At dusk, we decide to light our jack-o-lantern. A and I sit on the front porch steps, watching Travis ignite the small candle. Jack's mug begins to glow, and Anna's own face lights up as well. Still wearing only her diaper and a dirty t-shirt, she leans forward and points to the pumpkin's eyes. "Eye," she says. For a moment, she is mesmerized. The three of us sit together in the twilight watching the glow, and I hug A close. We are making a real memory, not an unnatural, imposed event for the sake of creating a tradition. This is a moment that I will always treasure, sitting on the front porch with the two I love most, watching the youngest filled with wonder. In my desperation to create for A the warm memories that I now treasure, I realize that I was just trying too hard earlier. I tuck the lesson away for later, but Christmas is just around the corner.....and there is this light display that we always liked to visit when I was a child....