An evening trip to the pumpkin patch would not be one of the brightest ideas I’ve ever had–why do these things only ever play well in my head?
Can I just live in my head?
Our bank was offering a children’s event at a local pumpkin patch. We would get to go and enjoy such offerings as a pumpkin bounce house, a caterpillar crawl inflatable, a barrel train, a petting farm, face painting, a goodie bag, a wagon ride to the patch and a free pumpkin. When we got the flier, I thought, “Sign me UP!”, but only if we’ve had no melt downs that day :-).
I called ahead of time to make sure I could swing by the bank and pick up our tickets on the way (which really, was 15 or so miles out of my way to begin with.) Reassured that this wouldn’t be a problem, I made our plans. I got saucy Parmesan chicken cooking on low in the oven, got the girls all tanked up with cheese and crackers, grabbed the cameras, coats, and crackers, invited my MIL and we were ready to roll.
I arrived to a closed bank. Shut up tight. I was about to cry when I saw someone coming out of the bank. He was carrying a big box and talking on the phone, but that didn’t stop me from soliciting his assistance. Obviously, he had a key, so he should be able to help me.
Small towns being what they are, he did help me, even though he couldn’t find the tickets. He placed a call to make sure we’d be able to be admitted. Turns out he was the bank’s owner and has known Kevin’s family for eons, and is even related somehow.
Anyway, crisis averted. We picked up Joyce only a few minutes later than I had planned.
Upon arrival at the pumpkin patch, we dived right into the fun. We stared at the goats from afar. We entered the Caterpillar Crawl Through, but the air needed to keep it inflated was too intimidating, so that lasted all of about 30 seconds. We went on the Barrel Train, but made the driver stop halfway through so we could get out. We were enthralled by the bunnies. We waited patiently until the Jumping Pumpkin had no other jumpers, and stayed on our knees close to the edge, wearing big grins. Aviana got out as soon as some other children got in, but Brielle crawled right to the middle of the fracas and let them bounce her, giggling delightedly. We watched the pigs rapturously. (And when I say we, I mean the three and one year olds in this thrill of an evening).
I had only planned to stay for 45 minutes to an hour, and we were nearing our time limit, when we decided to hop on the last (so they said) wagon ride of the evening. It was still completely light out. The grouchy-ish curmudgeon of a driver told me I didn’t have time to run back to the car (which I could see 100 yards away) for a blanket, but I wouldn’t need it anyway because we would only be gone for about 10 minutes.
As it turned out, Mr. Curmudgeon drove that tractor at speeds previously unknown to Deere, over the bumpiest path known to man. I thought my teeth would bounce right out of my head. Plus it was windier going so fast. We got to the patch and we had to walk forever to find a pumpkin that wasn’t smashed. I picked two little ones as quickly as I could, so we could get back to the wagon and home before full on dark.
Well. You can see where this is going, can’t you?
Aviana felt the call of nature. As I’m taking her out of view (thank goodness, she’s a farm girl who has no compunction about going outside) Mr. Curmudgeon suddenly hollers to us and the several other families still dallying amongst the pumpkins, “Another wagon’s coming!” and LEAVES!
To me “Another wagon’s coming” means now. directly. posthaste. SOON.
Picture us, waiting. In the dark. No place to sit down. In the cold. With two babies who haven’t eaten a proper dinner. And are rapidly approaching their normal bedtime.
Finally, a full half hour later the other wagon roars up. Full of people. Who STILL HAVE TO PICK THEIR PUMPKINS! (Remember, we were supposed to be the last ride?) So we have to wait another half hour for them to choose their free pumpkin. In the dark. Sitting on hard wooden wagon benches. In the cold. With two babies who haven’t eaten a proper dinner. And are rapidly approaching their normal bedtime.
Really though, the girls handled it well. I think I was the only one freaking out. Brielle did fuss the entire way home, and the chicken was charred, but to quote Miss Hannigan, “All’s well that ends well, don’t you know, my little scissors legs?”
And to quote Miss Aviana, “The pumptin patch was NOT fun.”