I would have written this post:

Father’s Day is getting a little too close and I don’t have much for hubby yet. I thought I would check out the book selection at Family Christian to see if anything jumped out at me. I settled on The Screwtape Letters. Nothing says “I love you, daddy!” like a collection of demonic correspondence. I think he will enjoy it, make him think, and provide hours of conversational material.

Of course, the whole time we were in the store, I had to keep dragging the kids away from the VeggieTales display. Even Sam managed to get to the display, and he was strapped in the umbrella stroller the entire time. When not hugging plush Bobs and Larrys or begging for Silly Songs, Ryley cruised the aisles and Aidan hovered by the candy display in front of the registers. All I could think about was getting home and putting my pregnant feet, my pregnant legs, my pregnant self on the couch and resting.

I paid for the book and herded the kids toward the van and home, sweet home.

As I drove, I heard crunch! crunch! slurp! My diabolically keen sense of smell picked up wafting artificial grape. The light ahead turned red, giving me the chance to stop and investigate. I turned around. Aidan had a large purple heart-shaped lollipop, which she was thoroughly enjoying. White lettering on the lollipop reminded me “Jesus Loves You!”

“Aidan, where did you get that?” I asked.

“From the store.” she shrugged.

“Where did you put it?”

“In my pocket!”

The light was green. I made a right turn to go back to the store.

“Hey, why aren’t we going home?” she asked.

Because. Because even though you are three, practically four, I can’t let you take something that doesn’t belong to you. Because. I want to just go home. I am tired. I am embarrassed. I am surprised you didn’t know better. Because, because, because, I thought, but couldn’t say. I was angry, not necessarily at the thought of my little daughter stealing but at my inconvenience. Honestly, that is what I was most upset about at that moment and I am not proud of it.

We arrived back at the store. I had to get the stroller out and wake up a sleeping Sammy. I had to wrestle Ryley out of the van mere minutes after I wrestled him into the van. And I had to give Aidan the words she would need to say—probably the most grown-up words she’s ever said.

“We are going back into the store because taking something without paying is stealing, and it’s wrong. You are going to tell them you took a lollipop. You are going to say you are sorry. Then I will pay for the lollipop and it will go in the trash.”

“I don’t want to…!” she cried.

Neither do I.

She approached the register. After reassuring her, she told the clerk what happened. The clerk nodded and said thank you for coming back. I paid the 72 cents and we left.

I lectured her all the way home. I adjusted the mirror to watch her reaction. She stared out the window, her lips pursed. I talked and talked and scolded and talked some more. I told her daddy wouldn’t be happy. Once home we went inside. Shoes flew off and all of us collapsed under weight.

We had done the right thing, ultimately, yet I couldn’t shake something was missing. I thought about my first reaction when I saw her savoring the lollipop. A little laugh? Surprise? Noticing the irony of stealing a Jesus Loves You lollipop from the Christian bookstore? Jesus Loves You, sugared, made to taste sweet and of grapes. Jesus Loves You, now in a trashcan along with rejected receipts and the employee’s discarded Diet Coke Can, only 95% empty. Jesus Loves You, left behind.

I knew what was missing. I told Aidan to come sit with me on the couch. I told her I loved her and was proud of her for being brave and doing the right thing. I knew she was sorry. She was forgiven.

And so was I.

When I went on the Day out in Denver field trip with Aidan, I rode a school bus for the first time in nearly 20 years. I had a great time on the bus. Potholes still shot me out of my seat, which is just as exhilerating at 30-something as it is at 10.

Yesterday, I got to ride a school bus again. It lost it charm. Its Ferris Buellerian tendencies were more apparent than on my previous ride. I think it was because I was with 60 first-graders. We went to the pumpkin patch, a far-away pumpkin patch. A far, far, far away pumpkin patch with a bus driver who believed in closed windows.

I shared a seat with Ryley and a good buddy of his who was assigned to be in our group. I sat on the end of the seat, nearest the aisle. Across from our seat sat two little boys. One was very talkative. He pointed out the businesses as we rumbled by, the other cars, asked if we were getting closer, and talked of his previous pumpkin patch experiences. Almost in the same breath as “there’s the post office!” was “my mom and dad aren’t together anymore…”

“Oh…,” I said. He surprised me. I wanted to say something very reassuring, like “maybe they will get back together,” but that would be very foolish, cruel, and it is none of my business.

He continued, “My mom lives with her mom and dad at their house and me and my dad live with his girlfriend at her house.”

I told him that must not be easy and he said no.

The boy next to him, who had been very quiet, listening to our conversation, suddenly said “Well, my mom watches Alias all the time!”

I wanted to hug them. They both looked mournful, until someone started the knock-knock jokes. Those ended when it was apparent they weren’t very funny. One of the other children in my group told a joke and I’ve been chuckling ever since. The simplest jokes are the best:

Why did the roll of toilet paper roll down the hill?

To get to the bottom.

We arrived at the pumpkin patch, where we were escorted to a barn with a sign letting us know we were now students at Corn College. We learned nearly everything we use in our daily lives was once grown on a farm. Then we were taken, via tractor-pulled wagon, out to the pumpkin patch. We could each pick a pumpkin, as long as it was no larger than our heads. The kids debated the merits of nearly every pumpkin in sight—too big, too little, too smushy, too crooked, too muddy, too orange. Each child eventually found their ideal pumpkin, each child was sincere in the search for just the right one.

We tromped up and down the rows. I found my pumpkin and freed it from the shriveled vine. Every time I visit a pumpkin patch, I think of Linus and his futile wait for the Great Pumpkin. Linus sat in the most sincere pumpkin patch he could find, knowing the Great Pumpkin sought sincerity in his landing-patch. But the Great Pumpkin never picked his patch.

The kids struggled to carry their pumpkins, especially when they found the stems to be thorny. I offered to help, but none of them wanted me to carry their pumpkins. We climbed back in the wagon. The boy with the separated parents and the boy with the Alias watching mom cradled the pumpkins in their laps for the bumpy dirt road ride back to the barn. They took good care of their new treasures.

There were all so sincere, wide-eyed, earnest.

Too bad Linus isn’t around. I would give him a hot tip on where the Great Pumpkin is going to land this year.