We spent this weekend shopping for pumpkins.
You wouldn’t believe the pumpkins we found.
Warty ones and rainbow ones and textured ones and shiny ones and pumpkins that looked like they might have been Cinderella’s carriage once upon a time.
Had I been asleep? Have I been under a rock? When did pumpkins go all 2016?
And as I stood in the middle of the pumpkin aisle in the middle of pumpkin heaven pondering the mysteries of the universe, suddenly, out of the corner of my ear…
…I heard something that made my head twist around almost 180 degrees.
It was a burp the size of Texas.
Or maybe bigger.
A geographic expert might have said it was as large as a grouping of several lower contiguous states.
I scanned the perimeter for the culprit.
There she stood.
All four-feet-nine-inch-blue-eyed-blonde-haired-curly-headed bit of her. It was easy to spot her. She was the one in the middle of the pumpkins with big wide eyes and a hand covering her mouth looking confused.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said sheepishly. “I don’t know where that came from.”
I tried to look stern.
I tried to frown.
I tried to look like I imagine Emily Post would look at a person who just burped in the middle of the pumpkin patch.
But I’m one of those people who laughs at the most inopportune times.
I couldn’t help it.
Pumpkins and burping is a funny combination.
After we finished laughing and I wiped the tears from my eye and loaded up this amazing warty pumpkin into my cart, she turned to me and said, “It’s really your fault, Mom.”
Me? What? What was she talking about?
Then she grinned and added, “You spent all that time when I was little trying to get a burp out of me….
….and now? It’s really hard to re-learn it.”
Touche my little pumpkin burper.