Pumpkin pushers

Pumpkins. What is their allure, anyway? I’m not referring to the pumpkin spice latte revolution, or the intoxicating effect of a pumpkin muffin, or blessed be, the coma-like bliss that follows a piece of pumpkin pie.

I’m talking about the pre-slaughtered pumpkin in its unedited form. The one we travel miles to procure at the nearest pumpkin sweatshop patch, where we fight the crowds to capture a single photograph of our precious children looking like Autumn Angels amidst a bunch of relatively tasteless vegetables (those delicious lattes and muffins AREN’T EVEN MADE FROM REAL PUMPKINS YOU KNOW).

And it works! Those photos never fail to please. Even the most rotten child would look like a saint sitting next to a pumpkin.

Look at this precious image:


You would never know that my oldest daughter is actually in the midst of a Turd Ferguson-style temper tantrum and just told me I was the “worst mother ev-er.” All you see is tenderness, gentle souls, and pumpkins! Ahh pumpkins. Gourds of glee. It’s impossible to resist their enchanting ways.

Even Creepy Baby looks like an innocent cherub when flanked by pumpkins.


I’m so pleased with this setup that I’m going to leave her on my doorstep like this until Christmas.