On spooky hayrides, empty threats, and reluctant smiles
Every October, I take the boys on a "spooky" hayride they’ve been going to since they were little. It’s not particularly scary. There are animatronics scattered throughout the woods, some Halloween decorations, and just enough spooky atmosphere to make it fun without traumatizing anyone.
The boys had been begging to go, so on a Thursday night, despite the fact that it was a school night, I agreed. But first, we had another Halloween event to attend: the trunk-or-treat at Holden's school.
Holden wore his giant inflatable dinosaur costume, which is apparently both a Halloween outfit and a personal safety device. Toward the end of the event, he tripped over a clump of grass and dirt along the sidewalk and went down. Just completely toppled over.
Fortunately, the dinosaur was fully inflated, so instead of hitting the ground, he essentially landed inside his own personal airbag. He wasn’t hurt in the slightest. There are apparently some practical advantages to dressing your child as an enormous inflatable reptile.
After that, we headed to Powers Farm Market for the hayride. We pulled in a little after seven, and the place was absolutely mobbed. Apparently, half the county had also decided that Thursday was an excellent night to take their children into the woods. I was not expecting that.
Before getting in line, we made our way into the market, where we immediately lost all sense of restraint. Powers has fresh cookies, cider slushies, and whoopie pies, so we descended upon the place like three raccoons who had just been released into a bakery. We were there for a wholesome family Halloween activity, but apparently we also intended to purchase half the dessert inventory.
Eventually, sufficiently stocked with treats, we got in line for the hayride, and Holden immediately began behaving like someone who had never been allowed in public before.
There was a wooden platform nearby, which he apparently interpreted as an invitation to repeatedly jump on and off it. He was swinging his glow stick around, yelling, and generally making it impossible for me to stand quietly for more than twelve seconds.
At one point, Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” came on.
“Michael Jackson! Hee-hee!” Holden announced, doing his best impression of Michael Jackson’s signature high-pitched squeal. Then he went right back to whatever he wasn’t supposed to be doing.
There were also sheep nearby, which Holden decided needed to be harassed.
“Look what I have!” he called to them, holding out his hand.
His hand was empty. It contained none of the food the farm sells to visitors to feed the animals.
Apparently, he had moved on to psychologically tormenting livestock.
By this point, I had probably yelled at him ten times. Caleb, meanwhile, was standing there like a middle-aged man waiting for his appointment at the DMV. I turned to him for some adult companionship and commiseration.
“All I do is yell at Holden. He’s always doing something.”
Caleb nodded solemnly. He understood.
Eventually, we boarded the hayride, and I foolishly assumed that being seated on a moving wagon would limit Holden’s opportunities for trouble. It did not.
“Holden, sit on your butt.”
“Holden. On your butt.”
“Holden!”
After the third warning, I accepted that sitting properly was apparently beyond our capabilities that evening.
Somehow, we survived the hayride. But before we could leave, there was one final obligation: our annual photograph. Every year, I take a picture of the boys in front of the same decorated arch at Powers Farm Market. It’s become a little tradition, one that I intend to continue whether or not my children cooperate.
Holden, naturally, was happy to participate. Caleb, on the other hand, has reached the age where being photographed is apparently a violation of his constitutional rights. Getting him to agree to a picture is difficult enough. Getting him to smile is an entirely separate negotiation.
“If you don’t smile for this, I’m not bringing you next year,” I warned.
He smiled.
And then immediately began protesting.
“Hey! You can’t do that! You can’t refuse to take me places because I won’t smile!”
He continued arguing the point long after the photograph had been taken, apparently determined to establish that my parenting methods were fundamentally unjust. And it was in that moment I realized I was doing one of the most stereotypically mom things imaginable: making a completely empty threat to obtain photographic evidence that my children were having a wonderful time.
For the record, I did get my picture, even though I would not have remembered the threat a year later. But apparently Caleb wasn’t willing to take that chance.
With our annual photograph secured and Caleb’s objections duly registered, we finally headed home. On the drive, Holden noticed flashing police lights ahead. Someone had been pulled over.
“Mom! Did you see that?”
The enormous collection of flashing red and blue lights? Yes. Yes, I had.
“They’re looking for you,” I told him.
“Why?” he asked solemnly. He was genuinely concerned.
“Because they heard you were bad on the hayride.”
There was a moment of silence. And then Caleb burst out laughing.
Caleb. My serious, practical, humorless, frequently unimpressed child, who had spent most of the evening silently enduring his brother’s nonsense and protesting my unreasonable photography requirements.
He absolutely lost it.
“Duuuuuude!” Holden protested.
And then I started laughing, too.
A few minutes later, I put on Justin Bieber’s “Baby,” a song that apparently activates something in my brain because the second it starts, my head begins bobbing involuntarily. Caleb joined in with his usual ridiculous rendition of the opening.
“Oh, whoa, oh, whoa, oh, whoa…”
He sings it in this exaggerated, completely ridiculous voice that makes it impossible for me to take the song seriously. Neither of us can explain why we do this. We just do.
Then, since Halloween was approaching, I followed it with “Thriller” and “Monster Mash,” and our car became a traveling collection of questionable musical choices.
By the time we got home, Holden had reached his official verdict.
“BEST NIGHT EVER!”
To be fair, Holden declares something the best day, best food, or best experience of his entire life approximately once a week. His standards for greatness are remarkably flexible.
I’d spent much of the evening telling him to stop doing things. Stop jumping. Stop swinging his glow stick. Sit down. Behave. And somehow, none of that had diminished his enjoyment in the slightest.
Caleb had spent the evening tolerating his brother, questioning my parenting decisions, and reluctantly smiling for a photograph. But somewhere between the imaginary police investigation and Justin Bieber, even he had let his guard down.
I thought about the three of us laughing in the car. Caleb’s ridiculous singing. Holden’s indignant “Duuuuuude!” The kind of laughter that happens without anyone trying to make a memory out of it.
I’d taken them out on a school night, spent half the evening wondering why I’d agreed to it, and come home with two happy boys.
Someday, I suspect I'll miss these ridiculous, ordinary evenings. The constant reminders to behave. The bickering. The moments when my patience was wearing thin. Because as exhausting as these nights can be, they belong to a chapter of our lives that won't last forever.
Someday, I won't have two little boys laughing in my backseat anymore. And I'll wish I could have just one more night exactly like this one.
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