It’s a Thing

Pumpkinrage: a state of being. Noun? ~ing, verb.
We went to a pumpkin patch and had a great day with friends and were prepared for rain showers, but were greeted with heat. That, combined with the long, long, stupidly long waits for ordering and receiving food would, on any other day, have been a formula for utter disaster, but fortune was favouring the unprepared that day. Anyhoo, we picked pumpkins and carried and/or rolled them to the bus, where I tried to stuff them into hidey holes or tie them down for the drive home that evening, but calamity was knocking on the door.

One sharp corner and this baby could have taken me out. Luckily, it didn’t take out the doors. I bagged it and hog-tied it, and eventually made it home, and we went inside for bed and whining about toothbrushes or what-have-you, and promptly forgot about the pumpkins.
Cut to a week later and we finally have time to carve those bad boys up, all over the floor and carpet, and all too close to each other with an array of implements.
Cue the rage.
Boys are eager to carve, but carving is hard and leads to random stabbing of pumpkin skin and proximity to siblings’ faces. Carving also involves scooping, which is slimy and gross, and everyone suddenly finds anything or something else that they would rather do. But they can’t bear that their pumpkin isn’t finished, won’t someone please finish my pumpkin? Someone does, of course, for cute picture potential, but also to finish and pack up the bloody mess, and perhaps try for some artisitic expression – I carved out a spider!

– and to satisfy 6yo’s desire to cook “the meat”. He forgets to eat it and cries while brushing his teeth. I slip on sloppy seedy stringies and have to pick all that shit up after bundling tired monkeys off to bed. I have 2 large pots of that stuff that 6yo wants to plant. Fat chance, son! The chickens will gobble that stuff up in the wink of a creepy pumpkin eyehole.
In the end, no one has done an enthusiastic job – except for 3.5yo, who has cut his little pumpkin into three pieces, and me – did you see my spider? – for more than 10 minutes, so the next 80 minutes that I spent bent over scooping and scraping and cutting, gets a little stabby. And my retorts to complaints of who gives a shit get a little sharper.
I know people who have pumpkin carving parties. To my mind, it’s a wonder their house doesn’t turn into a slasher film. I’m glad it’s nearly pine cone craft season; at least I can just sprinkle them with cinnamon, even after 3 weeks, and not worry about mold spores.


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