Pumpkins

“All I’m gonna do is video games … Video games, video games, video games. “

My family went to a pumpkin patch today, to get the whole “Halloween experience”. My wife made pumpkin muffins beforehand to get in the mood. The middle boy will only eat pizza and about three other things, but he was “encouraged” to try one : Mommy said “C’mon, Adam - it’s delicious. It has sugar!” The rest of us surrounded him, with big smiles and wide eyes. He probably thought if he didn’t eat the muffin, we might eat him. He took the smallest bite imaginable. Success! It didn’t end up on the floor.

The youngest was against the outing from the start, threatening to stay in the car the whole time. I wondered how soon this would all be over and we could come back home, until I remembered how much fun I was having, spending quality time with my family.

You might not know this, having simply gone to a grocery store for your pumpkins, but they are actually attached to the ground out in the field where they grow. A muddy field. And the vines that hold them there are covered with tiny spikes you can’t see or feel - until you try to rip one free of its filthy nest by yanking on the vine, because the sharpest thing you have in your possession is your car keys; you've left your machete at home. Your gloves are there too, of course, so you’ll receive a variety of lacerations from the invisible spikes, but the mud that is stuck to the underside of the pumpkin will smear across your hands and arms and clothes, soothing any itchy, burning sensation you might receive. Who knew you needed so many supplies ? Putting up Christmas lights was never this dangerous.

I was loading our filthy, overpriced, inedible food items into the car, when I heard a wail, like a wounded animal, coming from the hay maze. “Is that a good scream or a bad one?” I thought. Every outburst has the potential to go either way, so I did what any involved parent does on the brink of crisis - I did nothing, while I hoped the situation would sort itself out. It didn’t.

Amid the moans of human suffering, I drove the family home and cringed as each high-pitched screech raked across my nerves. “Did you even ask if he was OK?” Julie chastised me. A bandaid, size extra small, was all the mishap called for, and I would apply it when we got home, so what more did she want from me?

And then I saw the wound : an abrasion in the EXACT SAME SPOT as a burn, and ON BOTH ARMS, in that tender area between the bicep and tricep and below the armpit, where evolution has left humans exposed and unprotected with the most sensitive skin. The sliding board was hot from the sun and its surface was jagged from … what - neglect? abuse? vandalism from disgruntled zombies in the haunted hay maze?

In a last-ditch attempt to bring my ‘dad status’ back out of the sewer, I took a road that a surplus of tax dollars had turned into an obstacle course of extra-large speed bumps, spaced every 100 feet or so. In third gear, our SUV almost caught air, launching the kid in the last row repeatedly into the roof. The commotion almost coaxed a laugh from our wounded child.

Between the other two, one had a concussion, and the other was car sick, because he still hadn’t eaten. But it’s the wins, not the losses, that make being a parent so rewarding.

Next time I’m going to the grocery store. By myself … $.49/lb really adds up.