There are two things that prominently come up around Halloween in my house...and they both get brought up by my kids any time they hear the words PUMPKIN or HAUNTED HOUSE.
Number 1: PUMPKIN
While standing outside the elementary school building yesterday with Insanity (my daycare provider), waiting for all seven kids to exit the building (I play the role of chauffeur every Wednesday because Insanity herself doesn't have enough room nor enough seat belts to haul around all of those kids), I mention that our plans for that evening will include carving pumpkins. Bubba, who up until this point gave no indication that he was listening to our conversation, piped up with this comment:
"Mom's allergic to pumpkins!"
Yes, folks, I have an allergic reaction to pumpkins...sort of. A few years ago, I developed a rash on my arms immediately after scraping the guts out of a pumpkin for Halloween. It was red and a bit itchy but nothing extremely painful or horrible to deal with. It only occurs when I stick my hand inside a pumpkin and never when I eat the said vegetable. Just a skin irritation, really, and it is no big deal...
...but ever since then, my children have told everyone who mentions a pumpkin in their presence that their mommy is allergic to pumpkins.
That is a skull and cross-bones (or bonehead in my household), a kitty cat, and a scary guy with Bubba's name carved into it. We originally had four pumpkins (note the one in the background) but when we carved out the top to begin the process of de-gutting it, this is what we found...
This picture does not do justice to the absolute grossness that was inside this pumpkin. It was rotten through and through, complete with mold! Yuck, yuck, yuck! Needless to say, we were short one pumpkin so I kindly sacrificed my creative abilities for those of my more jack-o-lantern loving family members.
Number 2: HAUNTED HOUSE
I am not a lover of being scared. I don't enjoy scary movies (I usually avoid anything that is rated R for any reason other than nudity or sex scenes). The paranormal creeps me out something fierce, i.e. I am terrified of ghosts! I do, however, love to watch tv shows that are a bit freaky (such as Fringe and Supernatural) as long as I have my hubby there to save me and I can watch something "light" right afterwards to wipe it from my mind. ((I am a mess of contradictions!))
With that said, I also must tell you that I go to the local huge Haunted House just about every year. Usually it's because my hubby wants to go, sometimes it's because a group of friends get together and I am always up for a group activity, but really it's a little bit about me wanting to conquer something that really terrifies me.
Walking into a Haunted House, I always am assured that no one will touch me if I don't touch them. I KNOW that I will come out of there alive and unscathed and still I am freaked out beyond belief. Shaking and terrified. Heart pounding out of my chest, gripping onto someone, anyone, for dear life.
That is what I think of when I hear the words HAUNTED HOUSE.
My kids...they think of pee pants...and mention it as often as they can. Here is why...
It was pitch black. One hand was gripped tightly to the hand of the man in front, the other to the coat sleeve of the one behind. Terrified beyond the point of being able to scream, eyes closed tight, breaths coming in short gasps and squeezing down a very narrow hallway with shoulders dragging along each wall, the lungs began to shut down as the claustrophobia set in. And then...salvation. An opening. The walls fell away to a wide open room. The air rushed back into the lungs and filled them with the sweet sense of refreshment, freedom. The terror was over. My grip relaxed and I sighed with relief.
Bright headlights lit up the room. The horn blared. The semi truck came speeding at me. A scream escaped my lips as my knees gave out and I found myself curled into the fetal position upon the floor and then it happened...
...I wet myself.
Yes, folks. I did. I wet my pants in pure terror of being run over by an eighteen wheeler. Maybe it was because of the monsters and killers lurking around every corner of the haunted house. Maybe it was because I had forgotten to use the port-a-john before entering. Maybe it was because my abusive step-dad drove truck and this particular incident brought those terrible feelings right back to the surface. Whatever the reason, I peed my pants right there on the floor of the Haunted House...
...and that is what my kids remind me of every time a Haunted House gets mentioned.
"I remember when you peed your pants at the Haunted House, Mommy. Do you?"
"Yes, darling. BUT YOU WEREN'T EVEN THERE!!!!!"