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Fall is finally here.  Yippee!!!!  Nice weather, crunchy leaves, pumpkins…I love it all! 

Last week Patrick and I went on our first field trip…to The Pumpkin Farm with his preschool class.  I was so excited!  This is just my thing – memory making for Patrick, memories from my own childhood, fun, fun, fun.  It was to be one of those days that give you that warm, fuzzy feeling and makes you just love being a mom.

Though it sure didn’t start out that way…

It was raining when we got there, so that was kind of a drag.  The rain, however, was the least of my worries – Patrick, my beautiful son, who I had been prepping all week for the experience, couldn’t get past the “I want to pick pumpkins – NOW” part of the trip.  He’s been talking about picking a pumpkin for days, “We go pumpkin patch Thursday. Babick pick pumpkin.”  Alas, I had neglected to tell him that we pick pumpkins at the end of the day….argh!

When we arrived, of course the first thing he saw were the piles of pumpkins.  How do you explain to an almost three year old that there are other activities first, that you must WAIT in order to do the very thing that your mother has been promising you for a week?  There were animals to see, the corn  maze to walk, the hayride!  But no. All he wanted to do was pick a pumpkin.

Picture this: me squatting down with my backside dangerously close to the muddy ground, manuevering a purse and umbrella in one hand while I attempt to prevent a whining, limp as a ragdoll boy from literally throwing his body down in the mud.

Me:  Let’s go see the animals Patrick. Look, there are chickens!

Patrick:  No chickens!  Pick pumpkin! 

Me: We will pick pumpkins today.  But we have other activities to do first.  Look!  There are sheep and goats too!

Patrick:  Nooooooo….go home!!!!

And at that moment, in the midst of the writhing and whining, we were called for our hayride.  By this time, the rain had stopped (thank goodness) so at least I had two free hands to lug the ragdoll boy onto the wagon and plop him down on a (very wet) hay bale as he yelled, “No!  Go home Mama…go home!”  Even better?  The driver of the tractor thought our group belonged to another class and had us get off of the wagon, walk to another wagon, where he figured out his mistake, turned us back around and had us get on the original wagon.  Ugh!  All the while I’m carrying a whining, muddy child who doesn’t even want to get on the wagon anyway!

My thoughts right then?  “This, my dear son, is a harvest tradition…we will do it every year…you’d better get used to it…and you WILL do it whether you like it or not!”

And with that, we sat (again, on the wet hay) and our ride began.  It was then, as soon as we started moving,  that the (and you moms know exactly what I’m talking about) magical transformation began. “Mama!  Motorcycle!  Train!  Flowers! I see pumpkins!”  The whining boy became the cutest boy in the universe in 2.2 seconds as we rode the wet, dirty, hay bales down the bumpy road. He relaxed. I relaxed. We even giggled a few times.

After the hayride, we went through the corn maze and climbed a haybale pyramid, smiling the whole way.  Patrick didn’t even complain when I told him that we weren’t going on the slide (waaaaaayyyyy too many wild and crazy kindergarteners were in the line).  We looked at the animals, had a snack, and then, finally – he picked pumpkins. 

I let him pick any two that he wanted…he looked around for a bit, then found just the right ones. One is stemless and bumpy (and a little soft, according to my husband), the other a bit lopsided.  But they are PERFECT sitting on our “in between” wall, dividing the living and dining rooms.

Though we had a rough start, the morning ended just as I had hoped, making memories with my son on a beautiful autumn day.  As we drove home, I asked Patrick what his favorite part of the pumpkin patch was. He said, “My favorite part was….ride on tractor!” 

My favorite part?  That warm and fuzzy feeling….loving being his mom and experiencing childhood all over again through his eyes.

Labor Day means so many things: the “unofficial” end of summer, an extra day off as a “reward” for all of the overtime and stress your daily job entails, barbeques, sunshine, and lots of TRAFFIC.

But for me, as Labor Day rolls around, I am always reminded of my grandpa, and the year that we painted the fence.  It was supposed to be a Labor Day like all others – visiting Grandma and Grandpa’s house, eating barbeque, running though the sprinklers and goofing around with the cousins. Gramps, however, had other plans.  He decided that this Labor Day, his grandkids would…paint the fence.  You should have seen our shocked faces when we were given the dreaded news – we, the four of us, two boys, two girls, would be WORKING?  On Labor Day?

“But it’s LABOR DAY!”  we complained to deaf ears.  “No one should LABOR on Labor Day!”  And then, with the guiding eyes of my grandfather upon us, we picked up our brushes and painted.  And painted.  And painted.  We painted the fence.  We (oops) painted the grass.  And we (accidentally on purpose) painted each other.  My grandma joked that we had more paint on us than that fence did.

We still ate barbeque.  We still rinsed ourselves off with the hose.  We were still hanging out with our cousins.  And we made grandpa happy.

These days, I’ll bet very few kids are painting fences today.  Many of them are inside playing video games instead.  Maybe the world needs more grandpas like mine – a grandpa who commanded attention, who didn’t really ask, but told.  Usually with a smile and sometimes, a wink. 

We learned how to paint fences that day, but we also learned what it takes to make a positive contribution to your family.  Maybe someday my dad will ask Patrick to mow the lawn, or take out the garbage, or even paint a fence.  And he’ll remember Labor Day as I do  – not as a day off, but as a reminder of family.

Miss you Gramps.

Yesterday was the 4th, and we celebrated in the most traditional way- parade, bbq, fireworks, child up WAY past bedtime.  You know, American style.

We decorated Patrick’s wagon to walk down to the parade route.  We had so much fun! I made tissue paper flowers, we stapled glittery stars to curly pipecleaners – it was so cute! The parade?  No so much.  I know I’m not a kid anymore, but I remember parades being exciting and fun. I remember floats.  I remember high school bands. I remember music and cheering.  This parade did not have any floats or bands or cheering. It had fire trucks and police cars.  It had LOTS of people walking and waving.  It had LOTS  of people hanging out of cars and waving. Where were the floats?  Where were the bands? Patrick’s wagon was the talk of the crowd. Everyone commented on how cute it was, the best float they’d seen all day.  Maybe the parade organizers need to raise the bar on their entries.  Maybe next year WE’LL be in the parade. Maybe next year we’ll start our own parade!  We didn’t even stay until the end.  Patrick was ready to leave after the first fifteen minutes.  Oh well…

We went to the Sunrise Mall fireworks show in the evening.  Patrick was a bit nervous. Well, more than a bit. Patrick was a lot nervous.  He watched, but clung to me so tight that I thought he was going to rip my sweatshirt off.  I did my best to comfort him, to cheer for the exciting ones (we saw several cool smiley faces this year) and smile and clap. His wide-eyed gaze was priceless.  Too bad I was so concerned with him being afraid that I forgot to take a picture.  Today,he reminded me all about the fireworks.  “Stars go BOOM-BOOM!” he told me.  “Bierwarks loud!”  Too cute…

Overall, it was a WONDERFUL family day.  Many memories made!

Asked of me at work:  Are you Irish?

Me:  Nope.  The only thing Irish in my life is my son’s name!

Irish or not….

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

At the Old Sacramento parade