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...