I’m at a “pumpkin patch” on a late October Saturday morning. There are train rides, pony rides, birthday parties, goats and chickens in petting zoos, ice cream and hot dogs, and oh yes, some pumpkins. There are also balloons, toys, cardboard cutouts, hay bales, scarecrows and everything needed to make a proper autumn wonderland.
And there are screams. So many screams. Shrieks. Wails. Yelps.
Hundreds of over stimulated and tired toddlers egged on by parents wanting the perfect photo for their Instagram posts.
It’s crowded like an Asian night market but everyone is penned into this lot. The train snakes through pathways overrun by snotty children and stylish parents. Kids clamber over each other to feed the hungry goats. Fathers with expensive SLRs slung over their shoulders, heads swiveling as they ready for a generic shot that few people would want to see.
Across the highway rows and rows of pumpkins sit by themselves on a pumpkin farm. A few brave parents and their happy kids walk through the fields, making a different sort of memories.
On the drive here I wanted to tell Candice, “I need you to be present in this relationship. If I’m going to be the househusband you need to be comfortable with me taking over when you struggle in dealing with Maddy.” I couldn’t remember the last time I enjoyed her company over any of my friends. We move from chore to chore; day to day.
We drove in silence.
The sun gets hotter as the shadows get shorter. I am in hell.