Running amok in the pumpkin patch

No Halloween is complete without a requisite pumpkin patch photo of Mark. At least, that's what I tell myself every year. I'm not sure why I do this--in theory, I do it so I can look back one day at a littler Mark, a sweet, tender young Mark smiling broadly among the pumpkins. In reality, I'm gonna be looking at a collage of smirking, eye-rolling, camera-avoiding photos of Mark doing everything he can to ruin my photos and simultaneously drop or break any of the surrounding pumpkins. 

And still, every year, I try.

This year was a little different. The first difference was that I took Mark to an actual pumpkin patch--a real field of pumpkins for as far as you can see. The second difference was that I brought along his friend Sean and his mom, Liz. The third difference was that I didn't give Mark his ADD pill that day. So yes, I brought a hyperactive wild child and his best friend to a farm, turned them loose, and was disappointed when they refused to sit still for portraits. Really,  I have no one to blame but myself.

I did manage to get a few photos before completely losing them...my photo session went a little like this...

A photo showcasing Mark's gum, instead of the pumpkin:

Mark photo bombing Sean's picture:
 

An almost-good photo, except that we're still focusing on Mark's gum:
 

I finally gave up, and sent the boys running off. They found a corn maze, and proceeded to race through it in just over two minutes. They ran through again, improving their time by 30 seconds, then ran a third time in just under 20 seconds.

"We cheated," Mark gasped.

"We just ran around the perimeter," Sean explained. 

They ran one last time, and as they took off, another boy who'd been standing on the edge of the maze watching took off with them. He just couldn't stand it any more, and returned out of breath with Sean and Mark.

All that running made the boys hungry, so we stopped for a snack. The boys begged for Hawaiian shaved ices, but Liz and I realized the last thing these amped-up boys needed was sugar and artificial dyes to wind them up even more. They settled for corn--first one ear, then two.

Sean went in for a third, and I asked Mark how many he could eat.

"He's gonna keep eating corn until his mom buys him a Hawaiian ice," Mark informed me.

Apparently, three was the magic number. Liz relented then, but to Sean's dismay, the snack bar ran out of Hawaiian ice just before he walked up.

So the boys turned to some physical activity instead--jumping hay bales. They leaped back and forth like wild men, completely oblivious to the fact that moments earlier, the bales were occupied by another group.

This group consisted of four smaller kids. One was decked out as a princess, and two smaller guys wore Monsters, Inc. costumes. The little princess was not at all pleased with Mark for taking over her impromptu playground, and she quietly let him know it.

Her friends were not happy, either. I don't know exactly how it started, but suddenly, the little monsters were attacking Mark! Sean tried to help, but those little kids were quick.

Their dad saw them go on the offensive, and reigned them in.

"Mike Wazowski, stop!" he yelled at the little one-eyed green Monster. "Sully, come here, now." 

It cracked me up that he yelled at them their character's names instead of their real names. (And they responded to their Monsters, Inc. names!)

The boys still had lots of energy, but they'd worn Liz and I out. We shuffled them toward the exit, but when we noticed the setting sun, we stopped for one last photo.

Which the boys immediately ruined by tossing handfuls of hay into the air.

And that was it. I declared the pumpkin patch photo session for 2013 officially over, and finally put us all out of our misery. I may not have gotten any amazing portraits, but I definitely did record some real-life moments. 

 

The (Not-So-)Great Pumpkin

Alternate title: Sometimes I'm not even sure why I bother...

Yesterday was our annual trip to the pumpkin patch, and Mark could barely contain his enthusiasm.

"You ready to go get pumpkins?" I asked.

"Nah," he sighed. "I don't want one this year."

"You...what?" I gasped. "How could you not want a pumpkin?"

"I just want to hang out at home," he said. I must note that the activity I was interrupting was...nothing. No video games or TV shows, he was just too lazy to leave the house for a pumpkin.

But I wasn't having it. I strongly encouraged him to get his shoes on and get in the car, and he was smart enough to do so.

I planned our trip around 5:30, because I figured the light is best for photos then, and all the families would be eating dinner. Boy, was I wrong...the pumpkin patch was mobbed, with more people than I've ever seen there, and the sun was already setting behind the buildings. Strikes 1 and 2.

I thought Mark would be interested once we got there, but he really wasn't. He refused to sit on the big pumpkins, or to sit with any other pumpkins in the field. He demanded we buy a huge pumpkin immediately so we could leave, but I reminded him he doesn't get a pumpkin until I get a nice photo. He just groaned.

He darted toward the giant pumpkins, trying to pick up the biggest one. I saw $50 of pumpkin dropping to the ground in my head, and hissed at him to put the damn thing down.

He did, but only because it was too heavy to lift for long. He tried lifting every other giant pumpkin nearby, and finally settled on an already-broken pumpkin.

"I want this one," he demanded. (He was in quite a mood!)

But Mark's not the first (or last) strong-willed, stubborn Dinsdale.

"Let's go," I answered. "I'm not leaving until I get a nice picture." 

I finally did get a decent picture, though:

After all the demands for a large pumpkin, here's the bad boy he settled on:

"Really?" I asked him, flabbergasted. "THAT'S the pumpkin you want to carve?"

"Yup!" he answered. "Let's go."

He paid for his baby pumpkin. It was $1.20, the cheapest it ever cost me to get out of there. But Mark was furious when the lady stamped a "paid" stamp on it--he immediately wiped it off.

"You have to show them the stamp when you leave," I reminded him. "How will they know you paid for it?"

"I paid!" he snorted. "No one's gonna check."

And they didn't.

My obnoxious young son had done everything he could to ruin our trip to the pumpkin patch. He was making me grouchy, and I thought it best to leave before I lost my temper in front of the approximately one million people surrounding me.

But just as we left, a guy in front of us hoisted a giant pumpkin onto his shoulder. It looked heavy, but he never slowed down. I looked at Mark and his tiny little pumpkin, and at the guy in front with his giant pumpkin. The contrast was hilarious.

Turns out, not even Mark's bad attitude can trump a funny picture.

Vampires, mummies and the Holy Ghost

We traveled to San Diego this weekend, since Halloween is one of those holidays better spent with a horde of kids. Mark was thrilled to spend it with his cousins.

First on the agenda was a trip to the pumpkin patch. Before I was even through the gate, Mark was holding a large, lopsided pumpkin with an $8 price tag on it.

"I want this one!" he shouted. I glanced around the lot, but it was kinda like buying a Christmas tree on Christmas day; not much to choose from. There were but a few rows of lonely, leftover pumpkins.

Some nice man gave us his leftover ride tickets on his way out, and the kids immediately used them on the giant inflatable slide. They raced up and down for 20 minutes, until finally they stumbled over to us, pink and sweaty. It was 85 degrees and hot outside; so much for a change of seasons!

Their next stop was a game booth. First, they threw plastic balls into giant pumpkin cutouts. Then they moved down a few steps to try their hand at fishing for magnetic turtles. Each turtle was labelled with a size that referred to a box of inflatable toys. All our kids won medium or large, which meant they got to choose an inflatable hammer or bat. They immediately raced off to beat each other silly with them.



My parents invited their neighbors over for dinner, which consisted of pizza, baked beans, mummy dogs and chili that was so hot, my brother Scott couldn't stop sweating.

"That's GOOD!" he gasped between bites. (He made it, and was very proud of himself.) He insisted I try some, and for a few minutes afterwards, I saw stars, as though I'd been pounded in the head with an inflatable bat. It was that hot!

My mom and I created the mummies by painstakingly wrapping hot dogs in crescent roll dough. I must admit my mom was much better at this than I was. "My patients don't look so good," I noted, as the "bandages" fell off once again.



My nephew Grant was intrigued and bothered by the mummies. "What are you putting on them?" he asked Scott more than once.

"Bandages," Scott told him, which did not sate him. "It's just bread dough, Grant," he explained, but Grant didn't believe him.

"What are you putting on there?" he asked me, and I answered the same thing. He frowned, and questioned my mom.

Finally, his mom gave him a bite of the "bandages" and he finally let it go.

Even though it was hot outside, the kids couldn't wait to dress up. They were in full costume by 5 o'clock, and quickly scarfing down their dinner. They wanted hit the streets as soon as possible, and didn't like hearing they had to wait until dark.



Finally, at 6 o'clock, we could hold them back no longer. The five adults filled our plastic ghost cups with wine, and headed out. The kids raced up the street, filling their plastic pumpkins with all the refined sugar they could get. Which turned out to be quite a lot; the neighborhood is an older one, with few kids. The homeowners were glad to see the kids, and loaded them up with handfuls of candy.

I've got to hand it to the kids, they did pretty well. The complaining didn't start until about 45 minutes in, when Mark grabbed at my cup and peered inside.

"I'm thirsty," he panted. "Is this water?"

I swiped it back. "No, it's wine. Keep going!"

Luckily, Michelle the neighbor, had brought along a bottle of water, which she graciously shared with my dehydrating son.

Ten minutes later, the complaints started up again, with cries of "My pumpkin's too heavy!"

"Do you have a bag I can put this in?" Mark asked me, apparently unable to see that all I was carrying was one plastic cup.

"I've got bags!" Michelle said. She was waaaaay more prepared than we were.

"There you go," I told Mark. "Go get one from the good mommy."

The kids circled the cul-de-sacs, and when the complaining grew loud again, Scott and I chastised them.

"Seriously," I said. "It's Halloween. It's the one night of the year you can run up to any house in the country, and people will give you free candy! What are you complaining about??"

Scott asked them what other night of the year that happened, and they all agreed none. They rallied for a few more minutes, until Grant tripped and fell, and announced he was done.

So we returned home at 7:30, and the mayhem began. The kids dumped their pumpkins out onto the table and began trading candy furiously. Mini-bars flew from hand to hand so quickly I was sure the chocolate would melt.

Everyone was finally happy with their take. Mark separated out all the Skittles and Starbursts, which I allow him to keep for low blood sugars. Next, he picked out his 10 favorite candies and set them aside to eat later. Then, he picked out three candies to eat immediately. The rest he handed over to me, and I handed him $10 in return. He got candy immediately, and for the next couple weeks, and $10 to boot. He was a happy camper.


We let them run wild for a bit afterwards, since they were fully revved up and enjoying a nice sugar buzz. But eventually, the sugar crash followed, and they settled down to sleep.

Oh, and as far as the diabetes...it made itself known, especially on this holiday dedicated solely to consuming massive amounts of sugar. All the walking actually made Mark a little low by bedtime; even after the junk food dinner and three mini-candy bars, his blood sugar was 70. I gave him some milk, and apparently, diabetes roared its ugly head and protested at the healthy food. His blood sugar shot up to 418 (!) two hours later.

But that was just a sidenote to the whole story. The best part of the story didn't even involve a meter; instead, it focused on six happy kids, their smiling parents and grandparents, and loads of happy childhood memories they made that night.

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...