The Princess somehow came across a photo online of a painted pumpkin (I blame her father. Because...well, he's the one who showed it to her). Normally he's in charge of pumpkins in this household, as Official Carver of Gourds and Melons. But painting? Apparently painting is my thing. I'm not sure how painting became my thing, because...I'm not a painter. But the Official Carver of Gourds and Melons has informed me that, as his title suggests, he carves; he does not paint. So by default...painting is my thing.
So she wants a painted pumpkin, and I'm supposed to help. Does she want a cute little kid kind of cartoony pumpkin? A pumpkin with a goofy smile and triangle eyes, a pumpkin her less-than-uber-talented mother might have a shot at accurately recreating? A pumpkin that...won't give anybody nightmares? No. No she does not.
She wants this:
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Not only is it kind of creepy and disturbing for a FIVE-YEAR-OLD to have chosen,
but, um...there is no way I'm that talented. That thing is 12 kinds of awesome.
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She was so enamored of this pumpkin that she made her daddy print this photo out and it is currently taped to her bedroom door. So every night when I go to bed, I tiptoe down the silent hallway to check on my little sleeping Princess...and find myself faced with this haunting visage, floating somewhere around chest-level in the dark, observing me with her wide, knowing eyes and her bloody smirk. It's...well, it's unnerving.
And this from the woman who
purchased a Zombie Baby eating its own foot and lovingly named it Gnarles. But hey. Gnarles lives
outside, ok? And I'm an adult. I'm allowed to be demented. My baby girl? Well, it's inevitable that she, too, will be demented. I just thought it would take a few more years to get there.
