Tonight we carved our pumpkins.
Hubby had cleaned the insides of both pumpkins while I ran to the store for the batteries. When I got home, we took turns helping five year old J with her pumpkin, which has patterns like a regular pumpkin, but instead of carving, involves poking a series of colored plastic pegs in the holes of a pattern, the light source being a fake candle that runs on a nine volt battery. The end result is something that looks like a giant pumpkin-shaped lite brite showing whatever pattern you chose.
After he took over helping her, I went about carving my own pumpkin in the traditional way… You know, plastic sppons and itty bitty saws… I swear I almost ended up needing stitches several times, and wondered exactly how many people per year have Halloween carving disasters.
As they were finishing up J’s lite brite pumpkin, I was doing the final touches on mine, including cleaning some extra mess out of the center. When I am “arting” (as with my writing) I am usually intensely focused. I didn’t care that I was getting pumpkin all over the place.
And since part of hubby and my relationship involves regularly taking the piss out of each other (we celebrated six years married yesterday, so it must be an effective means of bonding,) hubby offered his wise ass opinion.
Him: “I cleaned two whole pumpkins out and didn’t make that much of a mess.”
Me: ” What, do you want a fucking cookie? Go in the kitchen and get you one.”
At which point my five year old daughter pipes up “I want a fucking cookie!”
We really weren’t much good scolding her because we were both laughing too much. And I think Mommy will be getting punished tonight. But if that’s the worst thing she hears, I think she’ll be alright. I’m 34 years old, and I don’t much believe in “watching my mouth” around my own kid. I’ve earned the right to swear. One day she’ll earn hers. (“When I grow up, I can say ‘dammit’ ?”)
Yeah, dude. But not until then.