Pumpkin patch

A few days ago at the neighborhood farmers' market, the kids picked out pumpkins for their jack-o-lanterns.

On the walk home, I told the kids the story about how I found each of them at the pumpkin patch. It's a variation of the story I tell them about finding them when digging up potatoes or finding them among the china teacups when searching for treasures at the thrift shop.

We've had the official birds-and-bees discussion so the kids know what's what. And they both went through the age of reason when they challenged my stories and said, "Mom, I am not a yam and you know it!"

But they've emerged from that stage to once again listen to the stories, and they like to string the stories along to last as long as possible. We have running plots that involve a cast of characters I can no longer keep straight and plot twists to keep us on our toes.

This week's story was the basic tale as our walk home was short.

"When did you figure out I wasn't a pumpkin but a baby?" my son asked.

"Well, I certainly didn't know at the pumpkin patch. I searched up and down all the rows of pumpkins and looked under every leaf and vine before picking out the very best pumpkin. Papa picked it up and carried it, but it was very muddy so I had to wash it in the tub when we got home. And that's when the pumpkin giggled and kicked it's little feet, and I saw it wasn't a pumpkin at all but a little baby. It was you! Oh, you loved the bath."

"Didn't you find Big Sis in the pumpkin patch too?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why didn't you recognize me as a baby then? If it happened before, you should've known I was a baby before you put me in the tub."

"Well," I said, "I'm not that bright."

And my son said, "Yeah."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Here's a high school choir singing one of my favorite songs to sing to the kids in the kitchen. Take a listen!

On the lunch menu today: roasted sweet potatoes for my little spuds.