Eighteen Autumns :: What a Pumpkin Patch Taught Me About Motherhood
Every fall, we pack up the kids and head to the pumpkin patch. It’s one of those simple traditions that feels lighthearted on the surface — wandering through rows of orange, sipping cider, taking photos — but this year, it felt different. This year, I couldn’t help but notice how each of my children’s choices mirrored where they are in life, and how quickly these precious seasons are passing.
My oldest, my nine-year-old daughter, walked ahead with confidence. She didn’t need my help, didn’t ask for direction — she knew what she wanted and set out to find it. Watching her reminded me that childhood independence arrives quietly, almost without warning. One day you’re tying their shoes and brushing their hair, and the next they’re leading the way, sure of themselves in ways you didn’t see coming. It’s both beautiful and bittersweet — her growing strength makes me proud, even as I secretly long for just a little more time with the version of her who reached for my hand without hesitation.
My eight-year-old, my second oldest, lingers in that sweet middle ground. Still young enough to want to walk beside me, but old enough to insist on picking their own pumpkin. There’s a gentle push and pull in this stage — freedom colliding with comfort, independence tugging against the security of home. I see it in their smile when I nod approval, in the sideways glance that checks to make sure I’m still there. This stage feels fleeting, like a warm twilight between day and night.
Then there’s my three-year-old, bounding through the vines with determination and joy, loudly declaring, “I can do it!” He tries to lift pumpkins twice his size just to prove he can. He is in that fierce stage of budding independence, where everything is a test of ability and courage. Watching him is like watching a flame catch and glow — it’s messy, stubborn, and so full of wonder. Every tumble, every stubborn lift, every proud little “See, Mama?” feels like a glimpse of the person he’s becoming.
And as I watch these three, I can’t help but place a hand on my belly. Our fourth child will arrive in October, just in time for the leaves to change. This fall marks the beginning of their journey, their first pumpkin patch, their first autumn tucked into the fold of our family. It’s humbling to realize that the cycle is beginning all over again, even as it is slowly closing for the older ones.
Standing there, I realized that this tradition isn’t just about choosing pumpkins. It’s about seeing growth with my own eyes, capturing a moment in time, and recognizing how much closer we are to goodbye than we think. Each fall is a gift, a marker of their becoming. We only get eighteen autumns before they’re off carving their own paths — and pumpkins — without us.
So I stayed longer in the patch this year.
I memorized the way they laughed, the way they debated their choices, the way their personalities shined through even in something as simple as a pumpkin. I tucked the sounds and sights into my heart, knowing they are treasures I’ll return to long after the patch is quiet.
Because eighteen autumns is all I get with each of them. And this year, more than ever, I don’t want to rush a single one.
Final Thoughts
Motherhood has a way of slowing us down and speeding us up all at once. The days can feel long, but the years seem to disappear in a blink. Traditions like visiting the pumpkin patch remind me that it’s not about creating perfect moments — it’s about being present in the small, ordinary ones. Laughter echoing through the vines, sticky fingers from cider, the determined grins as each child lifts a pumpkin twice their size — these are the things I’ll treasure long after the pumpkins have faded from our porch.
Memories aren’t just something we stumble upon; they’re something we choose to hold onto. Whether through photos, journaling, keepsakes, or simply pausing to take it all in, I’ve learned that slowing down and noticing is the greatest gift I can give myself as a mom. These fleeting seasons remind me to tuck away the little details — the sound of their voices, the weight of their hands in mine, the look on their faces when they’ve chosen “the one.”
Because in the end, the pumpkins will rot, the leaves will fall, and the years will keep moving forward — but the memories we hold on to will always stay.
