The Thrill of the Patch

Trees cast eery shadows across the field where disfigured pumpkins lie in wait. An old train howls hauntingly in the distance. Suddenly, a hollow wail pierces the air, "NOOOOO!" A blonde head bobs by, arms outstretched, knees crumpling to the ground as she yells, "Come back tractor!" Thus, the scene is set, complete with all the trappings of our yearly pumpkin patch drama.

Allow me to back up to the beginning. When afternoons become crisp and blue skies brilliant, I begin to bug my husband about taking A and me to the pumpkin patch. Since last year's outing was so full of drama, we decided to try a new, closer pumpkin patch. Change of scenery, plus a cool train ride. What two year old can resist trains?

The morning of our adventure, I'm awakened by A peering at me over my pillow. "Thomas, mommy. No, Percy. No, Gordon," she finally decides.

"Morning, pumpkin," I mumble. "We're riding Thomas today."

"No, Gordon."

"Is he the blue one or the green one?"

A doesn't answer because she has taken off downstairs eagerly anticipating our train trip to the pumpkin patch.

To save time, I have printed out our tickets, so when we arrive, an hour early (as requested by the museum) I expect that we will present our tickets to the man in the boarding uniform and pick our seats. No, no. T must stand in line and transfer my paper tickets into real tickets while I try to keep A from running up and down the tracks and into oncoming traffic. Forty-five minutes after our arrival, we board the train.

Any inconvenience is quickly forgotten when I see the huge grins on A and T's faces and hear the whistle wail, signaling, "All Aboard!" The train pulls out of the station, and we are on our way. An honest-to-goodness, real train. We have chosen the open-air car and except for a crispness in the morning air and a few sprinkles of condensation, the ride is beautiful.

Twenty minutes into the ride, we see a huge jack-o-lantern sitting in a shady field. The Great Pumpkin we later learn. A small vineyard borders the "pumpkin" patch and free-standing pumpkins, apparently purchased from a real patch are littered throughout the field. Travis, A , and I exit the train and decide to let A jump in the big, bouncy thing. Ah, how naive we are. Since the field is wet and rather muddy, kids are leaving their shoes on to jump. Not A . No, that is breaking the traditional rules of bouncy things, and she is not going to break the no-shoe rule, plus she is wearing, difficult-to-remove, difficult-to-put-back-on boots. T and I debate with her that it is truly all right to wear her shoes. Finally, T gives her bottom a small, encouraging nudge into the bouncy thing and A , still distraught about wearing her shoes, begins to wail. I am standing on the side, peering through the net, so I can keep an eye on her. A stumbles to where I am standing, trying to avoid being pummeled by jumping pre-schoolers, and wails, "MOOOOMMMMY!"

"Honey, please get her out of there." T extracts A from the tiny entrance, and we decide to head to the hayride. A , though, is still trying to remove her boots and won't hear of it. But, alas, the hayride is attached to a tractor, and well, I did grow up in the country, so my blood flows in her veins. Meaning, she loves tractors. We get in line for the hayride, and in a repeat of last year, we just miss getting on that particular ride. A bursts into tears. (Keep in mind, we did the 10 a.m. train ride to avoid I-need-a-nap drama.) Her father walks her over to the grapevines to see if they can see any grapes, while I wait in line. After five-minutes-that-seem-like-thirty, the tractor comes back and we take our turn on the hayride. We exit with a smiling daughter and decide to go pick out our pumpkin.

As T and I inspect pumpkins, we hear a shriek and see a small, blonde girl go running by with outstretched arms. A has apparently noticed the hayride is still going, and she isn't riding. She shouts "NO!" and falls to the ground in despair, screaming, "Come back, tractor!" Her face is pinched and red and tears are flowing freely. Other pumpkin patch patrons walk by her crumpled, despairing body, look down, and smile. T and I, not so much. We fight the urge to turn and walk in the other direction. "Whose child is that?!!!!" But, since we all came on the same train, everyone is aware that the adorable blonde mourner belongs to us. T picks up our future Academy Award winner and walks over to some picnic tables. I go purchase chochlate for A (I realize it is misspelled but if you don't say it the way she pronounces it, it loses something.) Finally, we hear the whistle to board the train and make our way back to our seats.

On the train ride back, A crawls into my lap and snuggles next to my chest. Granted, half of her body is hanging off because of my ever-expanding tummy. I put my nose to her hair and kiss her on top of the head. Suddenly, I am reminded of why we, every year, take on trips that makes us uncomfortable or vulnerable to drama or that are sometimes inconvenient. Because, God always provides that moment, that moment when you know exactly why there is no where else on earth you'd rather be than in that place with your daughter in your lap and your husband next to you holding your hand. That moment that you wish could last forever because, even though everyone witnessed three breakdowns in fifteen minutes, you are in that space feeling utter bliss.

All too quickly, we are back at the station and getting into the car ready to go carve our pumpkin. A decides it will need a happy face, and we head home, where we discover that golden retrievers love pumpkins, but we'll save that one for later....

The Potty Not Traveled

A walks into my room carrying a pair of Elmo underwear and holds them up proudly. "Elmo panties, Mommy."

"You can't wear your Elmo panties until you start using the big girl potty."

She turns, exits, and returns moments later carrying a pair of Dora panties. "Dora, Mommy?"

In my mind, I roll my eyes and laugh at her budding reasoning ability and intellect. "All right, smart girl," I say. "You can't wear ANY panties until you use the potty. Panties are for big girls who use the potty every time."

"I want to wear my Dora panties!" she screams, voice escalating with each word.

"Well, let's go potty," I say. I take her hand and walk her to the bathroom. She sits, fully clothed, on the toilet and looks up to make sure Mommy is watching. "We need to take off your diaper first."

"No! I don't want to potty."

"Okay, but you can't wear the panties." I walk downstairs and leave my two-and-one-half-year-old writhing and whining on the bathroom floor. Moments later she comes downstairs wearing her Dora panties over her diaper. I just shrug my shoulders in defeat and start to make dinner.

So goes potty training at our house. As a former teacher, I could bring thirty seventh graders to complete silence by just raising my eyebrow. Students who'd narry written their names without whining were creating essays full of plot twists and conversational nuances. Kids who'd complained about reading the homework assignment off the board suddenly begged to go to the library for one more book. Certainly, all the result of God's gift of teaching. Somehow, though, that ability has not yet translated home to a feisty toddler, a potty, and big girl pants.

Defeated and frustrated, I've almost abandoned the idea of potty training A completely. Okay, I don't want a kindergartner with diapers, so I'm sure I'll pick it up again sometime. With the baby coming, I'm now beginning to worry about potty regression if I ever do manage to encourage her to use the toilet again. Have I mentioned that she still uses her pacifer? Yup, we've not begun to scale that mountain.

Yet, A does know and recognize all her letters. She can count to twelve. Must be something about eggs and doughnuts. She is a voracious scanner of books, who simply loves to learn. And, after thinking about my teaching years, I've come to realize that those students didn't turn into readers and writers overnight. It took months, sometimes the entire year, of patience, prayer, and dedication on my part and dedication, motivation, and learning on their part. Perhaps, I'm trying too hard too fast with A.

She does understand that Mommy's belly does indeed contain some sort of weird, moving item that is already taking up some of HER space on mom's lap and will soon completely disrupt life as she knows it. Her safe, solo world will soon be shared with something unknown that cries and nurses and takes her mommy's attention away for several hours a day. Perhaps not using the potty is her last vestige of control in a world that suddenly seems much less certain. If I take the time to get behind her eyes, I suddenly see how frightening this big girl stuff can seem when it all happens so quickly. So, instead of immediately feeling like I have the word FAILURE tattooed on my face when someone asks if my child is potty trained, I think I'll remove the focus from my own feelings of inadequacy as a parent and instead shift my concentration to A's perspective. Maybe this potty training process will go much more smoothly once I do.