Gabriella is madly in love. No, she’s infatuated. Pumpkins are her favorite thing EVER. She refers to them as punks and every time we leave the house she tries to recruit soldiers for her army of punks.
Yes, Gabriella. Yes I do. I do see that pumpkin over there. No, no we can’t take him home. He’s too heavy. He belongs to someone else. HE’S NAPPING, DAMMIT.
We finally picked up pumpkins of our own and Gabriella was understandably happy, until I decorated them and she couldn’t touch all the wet glue and paint. OH BOY. She cried inconsolably on and off for a half hour, in between proclaiming them her best friends and wishing them a happy birthday.
So everyone, meet the punks that caused the commotion.
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