So we brought them in...and today I noticed that Bud's was a little...saggy. Down in the mouth, or at heel, or whatever. Certainly not the fine, upstanding Jack we'd brought in.
I walked over for a closer look. The objects-formerly-known-as-pumpkins were each perched on top of a bookcase. I reached up to Bud's...and squish.
(This is the moment when I want the real grown-ups to swoop in and clean up my kid-style innocent make-a-mess; it really can't be MY job to clear a rotting pumpkin off of a shelf taller than I am..can it? Much less get the mushy, oozing mass out of the house without further casualties).
As there were no available grown-ups, I bagged the thing up and almost had it outside to the trash when I heard the pocket door open. It was Bud, in the midst of his quiet time, wondering what on earth I was doing. I tried to divert, but I needn't have bothered.
He was not traumatized by the loss of Jack. Oh, no. He just wanted to squish his fingers in there. So I took the bag into the backyard and turned him loose.
This is the super-rotten part he pulled off of the bottom.
That black stuff is not dirt. So. Gross.
So worth a half hour of bliss for him and quiet for me. I almost got through my Tim Keller sermon.
And there's always Pixie's equally blackened-with-mold but not quite yet supremely squishy pumpkin...for tomorrow.
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