Remembering those memories, part II

If the Valentine’s story was not enough, I also found this, a true and vivid picture of my exemplary job as a mother. Entitled “Our day at the pumpkin patch,” this one came from October 16, 2007:

Here’s a little story about a day in the life of this Mom and her boys.

 Yesterday, we all head over to the fabulous Dollinger’s Pumpkin Farm for an afterschool field trip.  First, we rode the train.  It sure was nice of the Pumpkin Farm Lady to put me, Hank and George in the caboose.  The caboose that was designed for 5 year olds.  I was sooooooo excited that I got to crawl into a tiny little car while attempting to drag George behind me.  Good thing I was wearing my low-rise jeans so everyone could get a good look at my crack!
So, after the ride, and after I gracefully squeeze my way back out of the caboose, we head over to the pumpkin patch and park.  Hank wants to touch farm animals.  Well, you can take the girl out of the suburbs, but you cannot take the suburbs out of the girl.  “No way, man, that’s disgusting” I announce to my child.  Naturally, I say it loud enough for all to hear.  The other mothers, whose children are practically embracing the goats, look at me in disgust, as I have just announced that I am better than they are.  I slink away.
Off to the playground.   While Hank is off running around with his friends, me and George explore the playhouse.  Little Thomas, a preschooler, decides to play too.  Thomas thinks that pushing an 18 month old is FUN!  “Don’t do that,” I say nice and stern to Thomas.  I look around.  His mother cannot be found.  I assume she is off smoking a cigarette somewhere (what else would a woman who is 7 months pregnant be doing?).  Thomas pushes George again and tries to slam the door of the playhouse on him.  I turn into the protective Mama bear.  I yell at Thomas loud enough that his mother looks up from taking another drag with one hand while rubbing her belly with the other.  Thomas runs away.  I smile with satisfaction, hoping that the pregnant slacker smoker will say something ridiculous like “don’t yell at my child!”  She does not.
Hank has now disappeared to the sandbox, where he is pretty much taking up all the room and the smaller children cannot play.  “Come out of there!” I shout.  “Go play in the haystacks with your friends!”  He obeys.  Hank runs to the haystacks, where he, Kyle and Nickolas decide to play king of the hill.  Hank is doing quite well, he even pushes off a 4th grader!  Woo hoo!  Well, Kyle has had enough of losing.  He gives Hank a good old heave.  Hank tumbles over the side…. and promptly screams bloody murder.
Ever the loving mother, I snap at him to stop screaming and calm down.  His cries are more of annoyance than pain, and he is clearly just having a fit.  “Knock it off or we’re leaving” I growl at the child.  A few teachers come over.  “He’s fine,” I let them know.  Well, he won’t quit his complaining, so off we go, NO PUMPKIN FOR YOU!!!!
During the ride home, the wailing really revs up.  “Calm down, Hank” I nag over and over.  Halfway home, I turn to look at him.  He is crying silently, in sheer pain.  “Oh crap” I say.  We wait at home for half an hour for Jim to get home from work, then I get Hank back in the car to travel to the mystical city of Kankakee, to a wonderous place called the ER.  The radiologist calls him in, and there on his wrist, obvious enough for even me to see, is a crack.  The child has broken his wrist.
Out of guilt, he gets McDonald’s.  Out of pity for myself for being the mean mother, I too get McDonald’s.
And that is what a day at the Pumpkin Farm is like for the family.
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