But where was the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown?

We made our annual trip to the pumpkin patch yesterday. Mark was very excited, not only to pick out a pumpkin but to ride the expensive rides and play the expensive carnival games.

(An aside: Where does all the money those rides generate go to? By the looks of it, not into ride maintenance, as they all creaked and whined, and looked generally unsafe. I can't believe I paid to put my kid on them!)

We arrived at the patch late in the afternoon, and it was PACKED. There were kids running around everywhere, closely followed by parents with cameras in hand, or draped around their necks. I realized we all had the same idea--to transform a holiday family tradition into a photo op. That's why we happily paid twice the amount grocery stores charge for pumpkins--it's all about the photos. You couldn't take two steps in any direction without ruining some poor dad's picture.

Mark rushed for the biggest pumpkins first. "I want one of these!" he proclaimed. He looked at me expectantly, and I rattled off Pumpkin Patch Rule #1: "If you can carry it, you can have it."

Bless his little heart, he actually tried. "GRRRRRRRR!" he groaned, straining to lift what was easily a 50-pound pumpkin. "OK, maybe not," he finally conceded.

There was an empty space between two big pumpkins, and Mark plopped down into it. He pulled himself into a fetal position, and said, "I'm a giant pumpkin, Mom--take my picture!"

"Smile!" I told him, aiming the camera.

"Pumpkins don't smile," he chastised me, and I answered back, "Jack-o-lanterns do."

"I'm not a jack-o-lantern yet," he said. "I'm just a giant pumpkin." And so he was:

We wandered over to the smaller pumpkins, all carefully lined up in neat rows. Rather than use the empty path between, Mark waded right into the pumpkins, stepping carefully between them and climbing over them.

He picked up a pumpkin and placed it on his arm, flexing it into a giant orange muscle. "I'm so STROOOOONG!" he told me, and I laughed.

Next, he scooped up an unbalanced pumpkin wobbling on its side. "Here's a good one, Mom!" he shouted to me.

"That is a good one," I agreed. "You think it will stand up straight enough to hold a candle?" Mark concluded it probably would not.

Next, he reached for a pumpkin without a stem. "How about this one?" he asked.

"It's nice and round, and will definitely hold a candle straight," I said. "Does it have enough stem to lift the top off?" He inspected the non-existent stem, and agreed it might be hard to do. (Who knew picking pumpkins provided so many lessons?)

At last, he found the perfect pumpkin: it was small enough for him to lift (but big enough for him to groan at its weight), round enough to stand straight, with enough stem to make a good top. He was happy.

Until I reminded him of the final rule: To take a pumpkin home, he had to give me a decent photo first. (Yes, I know I'm a mean mom--but if you saw the fake, cheesy smiles or the mad, frowning faces of years past, you'd know this was a fair trade.)

"Come on, Mom!" he complained, but I wouldn't relent. "No smile, no pumpkin," I told him firmly.

And so he posed. And smiled. A couple pictures were cheesy, but that's the beauty of digital cameras: I saw the results instantly, and took a few more shots.

Afterwards, we stashed the pumpkin on a haystack, and headed for the rides. Mark rode the cars, a giant inflatable slide, and what looked like twirling, flying bathtubs. He pounded the strong man game with a huge hammer, trying to ring the bell. He even won a little stuffed dog by tossing ping-pong balls into floating dishes. (The little cheater waited until the game lady wasn't watching--then he leaned as far over the railing as he could and dropped the balls easily into the dishes!)

We left the patch tired and happy, lugging a couple medium-sized pumpkins with us. Mark was very protective of his, telling me he was going to wash his when we got home, because "you never know if somebody sneezed on it, or maybe sat on it."

I couldn't argue with that...