As part of my birthday tradition every year, Anthony and I pick out pumpkins and I’m generously allowed to go crazy go nuts and pick as many squash as I like. Early in our relationship I think Anthony realized that the key to making me happy on my birthday wasn’t diamond jewelry—it was pumpkins, and lots of ‘em.
This year we visited a pick-your-own patch, which I honestly never knew existed. It had been there for years, on the edge of town, turning out row after row of pumpkins, and we never knew it was there. When my Dad mentioned it to us we decided to check it out on our way to Modesto to have dinner with his parents.
I think the best part was teaching Isobel to say, “Pumpkin.”
The ground was uneven so Isobel fell down a lot, as evidenced by the dirt and debris on her diapered bottom, but that didn’t dampen her enthusiasm one bit. Anthony was kind enough to fetch a wheelbarrow to carry our stash in. Isobel helped pick the pumpkins but really she liked one as much as the other. Until we got to the miniature pumpkins. She loved the mini pumpkins. We let her pick several and she tried to carry all them in her arms at the same time.
We like to take pumpkin patch portraits every year because we are cheesy like that. Isobel thought it was *hilarious* that I made weird faces at her. Dada was not quite as entertaining, but I think most of that was my fault. I’m willing to let go of all sense of dignity to make her laugh. After awhile, the portrait taking resulted in fusspants time.
Anthony paid and started loading them in the car while Isobel ran around exploring the more exotic pumpkins. Including one named “Peanut” which made me all nostalgic because that was her in-utero nickname. See? Sob. My little peanut.
I also taught her how to stick her tongue out and she practiced it over and over. She’s a champ now.
Our pumpkins look so cheerful and happy on our porch. Whenever we leave the house Isobel always tries to take one or two with her.
I hope some of these babies last as long as the ones I had last year.