Oooooh… the pangs of motherhood… the anguish of parenting… the woeful need to plunge a knife deep into the heart of my fleshy, white baby and carve it a new face.
Don’t worry, I haven’t gone psycho – it’s just Jack-O’-Lantern time.
See, I planted a little seed, and it grew into a leaf, and the leaf became a vine, and the vine produced big yellow flowers, and the flower bore a fruit, and the fruit got bigger and fatter and months later, I had made myself a pumpkin. A beautiful, round, white Lumina pumpkin.
And now it’s late October, and in the spirit of the season, I should sacrifice my baby so that the neighborhood kids can have an evening of spooky ambiance as candlelit eyes peer out at them from the darkness of my front porch. But I don’t know if I can do it. It just feels WRONG.
I brought my little pumpkin into work today, and it’s staring forlornly at me from its spot on my desk, enjoying the last few hours of its life as a whole entity, before I scrape out its innards and perform unholy acts on its skin.
And the worst part? This is a nice, heavy, organically-grown, sweet-fleshed pumpkin, just begging to be made into the most delicious pumpkin pie ever tasted. I kind of want to eat my baby.
I am the worst mother in the world. I’ll never grow gourds again.