When I was a child Halloween was barely acknowledged. My parents didn’t go in for “all that American nonsense.” The extent of my celebrations was opening the door to kids wearing bin bags and offering them fruit because my parents wouldn’t buy sweets in! Life in our house wasn’t really affected by Halloween. There was certainly no big build up like there is now but I always had a sense that I was missing out.
As the weather has been so grim lately it seemed like a good idea indulge myself and keep Small Stuff occupied with some Halloween crafts and cosy afternoons watching Halloween related kiddie-fodder on Netflix. Even Mr Stuff got caught up in this Halloween build up and said he’d carve a Jack O’lantern.
So off we went to the supermarket to get our pumpkin. The fact that Small Stuff reacted like she was peering into a box full of puppies rather than a crate of slightly manky pumpkins should have been a warning sign. She honed in on one in particular and squealed in delight as Mr Stuff fished it out. We decided to get 2 in case we messed up the first one and returned home.
Mr Stuff made a start on his creation while Small Stuff sat next to him with her arms wrapped firmly around the spare pumpkin. I was aware of her chunnering away but didn’t take much notice as I was busy herding the cats away from the carving process and rummaging through the cupboards for tealights.
Mr Stuff declared pumpkin carving was a doddle. He was done in no time and offered to carve the spare. It was at this point I realised Small Stuff was planting gentle kisses and singing lullabies to said spare.
“Don’t cut Pumpkinny!”
(Imaginative, I know.)
“He’s my best friend and I love him!” she squeaked.
Obviously being sane people, we explained the pumpkin was just a fruit, not a toy or living creature and it wasn’t really for playing with. But this didn’t wash with Small Stuff. “You can’t cut him! I just want him to stay as he is. Can we make a spooky cucumber instead?!”
Without wanting to make it into a big deal I didn’t push the issue any more and felt certain that the novelty would wear off quickly, because you know, it’s a pumpkin.
I’m still waiting.
This is what was happening this morning. Pumpkinny has a clean bill of health apparently.
Maybe I could drive him to the countryside and set him free, or bake him in a risotto and say we found a nice farm for him to live on with lots of other pumpkins. Or do I let him live out his days as Small Stuff’s companion until he gets a bit icky?
After all how could I break this bond?
And why am I referring to this chuffin’ pumpkin as “He?!”
Has your child ever formed a bond with a bizarre object? I’d love to know!