A Double Life

Fall makes me a hoarder- a hoarder of two things to be precise: My fading tan and pumpkin products. Every white girl in America feels that shiver of thrill when they glimpse a venti PSL sashay by. Summer's parting gift is the Pumpkin Spice Latte.   It's like the first snowfall at Christmas.  But price gouged.  Now, the pumpkin plague has struck again with delicious fury.  Trader Joe's prolific pumpkin products offer an antidote.  Beware, however, they have a brief shelf-life. Gone by New Years.  So, I hoard. And though I am practically translucent by Columbus Day, my cache of a dozen Pumpkin butter jars will hold their own until 2015.

Seasonal delights for the palate accompany  the parade of pumpkin featured festivities. Fall makes farms famous. Corn mazes, hayrides, apple picking and....drum roll... pumpkin patches.  What is it about pumpkin patches?  That curious novelty of being surrounded by spherical vegetables- orange vegetables no less!- a color only a brave few wear well.  I don't understand it- but of course- I do it. Every year. It's practically unAmerican to not.  Wind-chapped faces affect delirious grins as though riding a pumpkin in a family photo was a life-long dream.  Insta-gram to Facebook to Scrapbook. Done. Memory Made.

Last weekend, we (intentionally) attended a Johnny Appleseed birthday party at Carter Mountain Orchard. I died a little bit the day I etched that "special event" in my planner. 34 years old and I found myself primping for the celebration of a dead man and the free cider donut they promised. (Okay- they had me at "free donut").  Still. The glamour of motherhood. There we were- my entourage still in their sweaty soccer uniforms, running through open vineyard fields, laughing like Rockwellian artistry come to life.   Of course, we bought cider and apples and peaches and a little piece of Americana that morning, folks.  So, thank you, Johnny.

Meanwhile, however, as I plot ways to justify another pumpkin munchkin, sobering atrocities are occurring throughout the world, indifferent to the advent of PSL season. The privilege of hoarding pumpkin pancakes is not lost on me. While I pose with my family in bucolic orchards, Pastor Saeed still languishes in an Iraqi prison apart from his. ISIS continues to avenge Allah as I DVR the fall premiere of Revenge. And so it goes. These disparities haunt me.  I feel powerless to affect change and a bit complicit in pretending we live in a pumpkin-patch perfect world.

Daily, my children decry injustices and stamp their feet against sibling discrimination and chocolate milk defrauding and denial of another episode of  Jake and the Neverland Pirates.  When they don't know a darn thing about it.  But I do.  The seeming impotence of my position as diaper changer and crust cutter makes me a truly desperate housewife some days.

Mothers live a double life. We defend the fairness of turn-taking while our government unfairly exploits theirs. We fashion Princess cakes while African orphans starve.  We roast marshmallows while the homes of Christians in  Pakistan burn- Carving pumpkins while the nations rage.  This is a little heavy- I'll grant you that.  I am just being honest about my struggle-which almost makes a hipster, right? (Just pretend I am wearing black rimmed glasses, skinny jeans and an ironic t-shirt)

They say that the hand that rocks the cradle rocks the world. I can only pray.  My kids don't need to watch an ISIS beheading (sigh of relief!)  BUT they do need to know that they were born for such a time as this.  And that pumpkin season is a profound privilege that not everyone enjoys.