Naturally, he catches me mid-stare, because stealth has never been my strong suit. I grin slyly, then drag my tongue over my bottom lip.
“Like what you see, Mommy?” His voice dips low, threaded with teasing. He knows exactly what he’s doing, standing there by the decorative hay bales looking like the star of an autumn themed romance cover.
“I love it.” I pinch my fingers together and kiss them like the world’s most dramatic chef.
Orlando, ever the mimic, lifts one chubby hand from my neck, bends all the wrong fingers backward, plants his kiss somewhere on his eyebrow, and makes a kissing face.
I dissolve, laughing so hard my knees wobble. Tristan chuckles in amusement. His eyes transmit the quiet adoration that makes me feel loved.
The pumpkin patch sprawls ahead, orange globes scattered like dropped lanterns. Leaves swirl with each breeze, dancing across the dirt path, sticking to Olivia’s leggings as she charges into the vines. The wind tugs at my hair, flinging strands into my mouth until Tristan reaches over, tucks them behind my ear. I swoon a little, thinking this might be a good time to let our son walk on his own so I can hug my husband.
“Ollie, do you want to pick your pumpkin?” I ask.
Orlando finally lets me set him down. His little legs kick as if the ground is lava, then he bolts to his sister, who is already trying to roll a pumpkin roughly double her body weight.
“This one, Daddy!” she grunts, pink leggings streaked with mud.
Tristan gives me a kiss before kneeling down to look Olivia in the eye.
“Remember our agreement, honey? It can’t be heavier than you.” He makes a show of lifting our daughter with one hand and failing to get a grip on the pumpkin. “Unfortunately, this one is definitely heavier that you and Ollie together.”
With his other hand, Tristan easily cradles our son on his forearm. Both kids wrap their arms around Tristan’s neck as he stands from the deep squat.
“You need more muscles!” Olivia squeals with a giggle.
“Carry Mommy, too!” Orlando demands.
“Daddy only has two arms,” I say, playing along.
“You need more arms!” Olivia shouts like the professional heckler she’s turning out to be.
We end up with two medium pumpkins and two smaller ones. Olivia insists hers has the best “princess shape.” Orlando taps the stem of his pumpkin repeatedly, like it’s his new pet.
At the goat pen, Olivia fearlessly sticks out her hand full of feed, laughing when the animals’ tongues tickle her palm. Orlando clutches his cup of feed to his chest.
“They’ll bite me,” he whispers.
“They won’t, sweetie,” I reassure him.
“See?” Tristan puts his hand in and jumps back, pretending to be bitten. Orlando’s jaw drops.
“Tristan!” I swat his arm. “You’re supposed to be building trust, not trauma.”
Olivia cackles like a villain in a Saturday morning cartoon. “Do it again, Daddy!”
Orlando’s lip wobbles and Tristan is immediately remorseful. He shows our son his hand and assures him that goats have no teeth. Eventually, we coax Orlando into opening his tiny palm. When the goat nibbles without incident, his face lights up.
“He likes me!”
“Of course he does,” I murmur, kissing his head. “You’re irresistible.”
Later, the twins pile into the barrel ride. It’s a makeshift train consisting of colorful barrels with wheels, pulled by a four wheeler. Pulled is a strong word for the sloth pace of this winding contraption.
Olivia throws her arms up like she’s on a roller coaster, while Orlando grips the sides and appraises the landscape with the intensity of a pilot about to take flight.
I fight down the nostalgia already creeping in. This is one of my favorite fall traditions as a family and soon they’ll be too big to ride those stupid barrels.
The breeze picks up, cool and crisp, swirling through the rows of corn and drying my eyes. The sky is washed in endless pale blue. Tristan slides an arm over my shoulders, his palm squeezing lightly.
