Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater

It’s always a good time with my friends until one of the girls talks about sex in front of my pubescent son. We met today at a local pumpkin farm, husbands and children in tow. It’s an annual tradition. This place is like a poor man’s amusement park. Admission is less than $50 for a family of five. There are huge slides, games, a corn maze, wagon rides, farm animals, etc. Plus, this year they added a zip line:

I was the middle-aged woman screaming like I had just bungee jumped off the grand canyon. It was fun though. Actually, it was the perfect day. We ate cider donuts and picked pumpkins. There is nothing like Autumn in New York:

There was a food station inside a barn. However, we decided not to eat a meal in the same vicinity where Alpaca’s take a shit. So, we went to a nearby restaurant for lunch. Other than a brief tantrum from my 2-year-old, my kids were pretty well behaved. Sure, my 5-year-old announced aloud at the farm that the slide “hurt my balls.” I suppose it could have been worse. He could have kicked someone in the testicles.

I have an amazing group of friends. We always have great conversation and a lot of laughs. While at the restaurant one of my friends started to tell a story, “Yeah, she is pregnant again. She tried to say it was immaculate conception. Okay, like they aren’t having sex all the time.” (Cue sound effect: screeching tires) Ahhhhh! Not the S word. “Babababababa,” I shouted to interrupt the conversation, motioning toward my 12-year-old son. I couldn’t get my lips to form an actual word. “Oh, sorry. I forget.” She can forget because she doesn’t have any kids. I have to speak like this on a regular basis:
“We aren’t making good decisions.”
“Good sharing!”
“Let’s use our inside voices.”

She can drop words like p**** or c*** without giving it a second thought. I suppose I’m lucky she didn’t.

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