Perhaps I should be a bit embarrassed in admitting this.
I love pumpkins. Passionate about pumpkins. I want to hoard them. Pile them up on my front porch. Stash them on every stair on my case. I want to name them, cuddle them, comfort them from the inevitable knife that is waiting to slice into them.
When I was small, I would bathe them. More than once, in the sink like a wee baby. I would steal a laundry basket and turn it into a pumpkin crib. Name them. And weep when my mother mentioned carving into her. It was haunting to see the gourd start to decompose, despite my best efforts to hold back time.
And I would pine for the next October to do it all again.
I am a bit more grown up about it all now. I slyly wash the pumpkin, just once, and never with bubble bath. I am all business-like about the carving. And there are no pumpkin cribs.
So you can imagine my heart flutters when Nor decided to cuddle her baby pumpkin. Bring it into the bath and scrub it with her butterfly wash cloth. Sleep with it right next to her on her nightstand. Demand to take it to school and introduce her friends to her sweet little pumpkin.
And a new generation of pumpkin-lovers begins.