And There I’d Keep Him Very Well

daphne on November 4, 2009

The “there” of which I speak is this inconceivably large pumpkin shell.  Care to guess whom I would like to stuff inside?

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You might be thinking Dave, particularly if you have read the lyrical ode to my over- ambitious pumpkin-seed loving husband.  Perhaps putting him in a pumpkin shell is the consummate solution to a spouse mad out of his gourd.   I do like the way you think,  but it was actually this little guy I had in mind–

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This pint-sized delicious nephew of mine is coming to visit, and I know if given the chance I could keep him very well inside a giant pumpkin shell. But his mama is relatively new at all this baby stuff;  I bet when they arrive later this week she’ll insist on napping him somewhere clean and non-vegetative, like a pack+play.  New parents can be so unimaginative.

No sweat.  I already found a new occupant for the remains of the pumpkin shell abode.  You remember this guy?  We’ve renamed him ‘El Gordito’ after his recent pumpkin binge.

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He is thrilled with his edible bed.  Especially after I generously moved it out of the snow.  He was none too happy with the blizzard last week that left his stomping grounds looking like this —

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Before I moved his meal, El Gordito performed an interpretative cold paw dance on the snow that expressed his deepest desire (warm feet.) I should have caught it on film, but I have my reputation to consider. I don’t want people thinking that I’m spending too much time alone.  Alone, with squirrels, I mean.

Some would have me focus on the more human yet also cute inhabitants of this household.

Fine. For the record, cute humans that also reside here–

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Pictured: Sister Hermione, Sister Black Cat, and Mama Cowgirl.  Not pictured: Papa, sigh, Cowboy.  You’ll have to take my word for it.  Crazy-pumpkin-seed boy makes a mighty fine cowboy.  Yes-sir-ree-bob, he does.

Any-hoo, back to El Gordito.  I think I heard that you can actually bake things right inside a pumpkin shell.  Boy oh boy this year’s Thanksgiving dinner is practically preparing itself.

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Mmmm, Pumpkin roasted squirrel. Gotcha, Gordito! (That’s where I slam the whole squirrel-gourd combo into a big casserole and pop ‘er into the old oven.)

No, not really.  Here’s what I did do with the giant pumpkin shell.  In my quest for the title of  Auntie-of-the-Year, I pureed that 287 pound beauty.  I roasted. I diced.  I pureed and I pureed and I pureed.

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So here’s the deal baby Miles:  You can sleep wherever your newbie parents want you to sleep.  Just be sure to be hungry.  Be very very hungry.

Because, my dear boy, you have 875 pounds of pumpkin to eat.

And pretty babes all in a row

daphne on May 1, 2009

According to the gardening gurus it’s time to plant potatoes, but all I’m doing is eating a whole lot of doughnuts.  Ahhh, the anti-healthy all-terrible non-nutritional terrific-tasting doughnut.  Nothing takes the sting out of stress like a deep friend treat dipped in chocolate.  And I’ve been a bit stressed lately, what with my eight year-old almost losing an eye and my newborn nephew pulling an extended stint in the hospital. So yes, I’ve been eating some doughnuts.

I did have bigger plans.  Plans of planting potatoes and nurturing newborns but then Kira caught the business end of a boomerang with her face and then it snowed, again, covering the garden and then there were stitches to be removed and airplanes to catch and a new nephew to be hovered over and so much for plans.  You can see how there was really little time for anything other than a doughnut.

So here I am in Boston where it is springtime in spades.  With everything so lush and bursting from the ground it’s impossible to believe that this gorgeous guy has to hang out and wait for his lungs to mature. I guess he spent his time in the womb working on his fancy hair-do.

Sure, plans of planting potatoes morphed into pacing in front of digital read-outs of oxygen levels, but that’s alright. I really don’t care. The numbers look terrific. And so does little Miles.

Anyways, plans are silly. Who needs them?  The potatoes can wait.  And so can I.

Especially when it comes to snuggly newborns.

And chocolate-covered doughnuts.

who me, jealous?

daphne on September 29, 2008

Over the river and through the woods, or up the road and across the town line, lives my little brother. Say what you will about my use of the diminutive regarding a grown man with a wife, 2 sons, and his own business; the fact remains that this is my little brother. And you know how little brothers can be.

Just as soon as I got around to planting a garden and cooking up the harvest he had to get in on the game, which is fine, really. I don’t care. One thing, though. As you may have heard, I have had a difficult history with pumpkins, what with the all stag parties my gourds tend to throw. But does my brother have the same troubles? Noooooo, he does not. Just look at this. I shudder to think of the multi-gendered orgy that went on in his pumpkin patch last spring.

And here’s my brother’s oldest son postulating to my daughters about the fecundity of their soil, the robust sexual appetites of their gourds, the, oh all right, he’s telling them that the pumpkins are turning orange, but still, it all seems just a little unfair.

Oh, and lest you think his green thumb is limited to the garden, let me tell you that it’s not all pumpkins being made over yonder at baby brother’s house. This little nugget was also freshly plucked. Apparently they’ve got an active cabbage patch too.

That’s Javi, my gorgeously adorable new nephew.

So I ask, why does my brother get pumpkins AND a new baby? What about me? I like pumpkins. I like babies. (And yes, I apparently am partial to pouting and whining too. But I happen to think that makes me all the more human and likable.)

Yes, the ugly but honest is that I am jealous. I’m a greener biener, all right; green with envy. Greener than those pumpkins in his patch that I know will soon turn the perfect pumpkiny orange.

It sure is swell that my little brother offered us a pumpkin for Halloween. Right. Pumpkin shmumpkin, I need to get these hungry hands on that yummy baby.