Zen and the Art of Motherhood

This weekend was absolutely glorious.  Blue skies, warm weather with soft breezes.  A perfect time to head to the pumpkin patch.

Luckily we have one right in our backyard.  Literally.  Our property happens to back up onto one of our area's premiere pumpkin spots.  Every fall my kids watch out our back windows, anxiously awaiting that first hint of orange.  Then the mantra begins.

Are we going yet?  Are we going yet?  Are we going yet?  Mantra, questions, what's the difference?  Whatever it is, its incessant.

So on Saturday, the annual trip was made.  Each child combed the fields, taking great care to pick just the right one.  Its a painstaking process, but the results are well worth the effort.

That's why this morning was such a disappointment.   We woke to the sound of my son.  Nothing unusual there.  He's our normal weekend alarm clock, the kind that uses you like a human trampoline, all the while asking if you're awake yet.

But this time, there was something decidedly different.  No jumping, just panic.

"Who did that to the pumpkins?"

Turns out our brand new pumpkins, plus the one my son grew himself, we innocent victims of some sick suburban vandal.  As a result, our lawn sported a lovely shade of orange. Seems our beautiful display was now in pieces all over the place.

At first I wondered why we were targeted.  Then I looked down the street to see the same warm hue on the neighbors' lawns.

As for my kids, they were dumbfounded.  They just kept asking, "Why would someone do this?"

As adults, we know it was probably some teens getting their kicks by destroying seemingly disposable items.  But to my kids, I think a bit of innocence was lost.

When I asked if they'd like to go back and pick out new ones, they replied, a little deflated.

"Nah.  Let's just get some at the store."