The festival day had arrived, and with it came a level of chaos that could only be described as organized panic. Mom was darting around the house like a caffeinated squirrel, polishing anything that didn't move. Dad, on the other hand, was holding me in one arm while trying to hang lanterns with the other. This multi-tasking feat would've been impressive if not for the fact that one of the lanterns had been hung upside down.
"Evan, the lantern's backward," Mom said, her voice sharp enough to slice bread. "Do you want the Hendersons to think we're amateurs?"
Ah yes, the infamous Hendersons. The Voldemorts of cleanliness. Apparently, they were the kind of people who judged you based on how shiny your porch was. Mom was determined to win this invisible war, even if it meant steam-cleaning the dirt itself.
Dad adjusted the lantern, muttering under his breath. "The Hendersons aren't even going to notice. They'll be too busy with their pie contest."
"Exactly," Mom snapped, wielding a mop like it was Excalibur. "And if they win that pie contest, they'll think they're better than us in every way."
I watched this exchange from my usual vantage point: Dad's baby sling. It was a good spot, right at adult chest level, which meant I had a front-row seat to all the drama. Also, it gave me the perfect excuse to avoid work. What was I going to do? Hold a broom with my stubby little hands? Please.
Once the lanterns were straightened (for the third time), we headed to the village square. The festival was in full swing, and let me tell you, it was like every cliché medieval town scene you've ever seen. People were juggling flaming torches, kids were chasing each other around stalls, and there was a guy trying to sell "magic beans" to a skeptical crowd.
One particularly loud stall caught my attention. A man with a booming voice was hyping up a game where you had to throw a ball at a stack of wooden bottles. "Step right up! Test your aim! Win a prize!"
"Oh great," I thought. "Carnival games. The universal scam."
Dad stopped at the stall, intrigued. "Maybe Andreas can try."
Mom gave him a look. "He's a baby, Evan."
"Exactly. Babies are lucky," Dad said, grabbing a ball and handing it to me.
"What is this, Make Your Baby a Circus Act Day?" I wanted to protest, but it was too late. He lined up my little arm and helped me throw. The ball arced gracefully through the air, missing the bottles entirely and smacking the stall owner square in the face.
The crowd roared with laughter. Mom facepalmed. Dad? He just grinned. "See? Told you he's got spirit."
After our disastrous attempt at bottle-knocking, we wandered over to the food stalls. The smells were intoxicating—roasted meat, fresh bread, sweet pies. My baby stomach growled like a dragon, and Mom took it as a sign to feed me.
"Here, try this," she said, holding up a tiny piece of roasted chicken. "It's from Mrs. Henderson's stall."
Wait, the Hendersons? The mortal enemies? This was like eating at your rival's house and complimenting the mashed potatoes. I eyed the chicken suspiciously but took a bite. To my surprise, it was delicious. Juicy, tender, perfectly seasoned.
"Traitor," I imagined Mom thinking as she watched me coo in delight.
"See?" Dad said with a smug grin. "Even Andreas knows good food when he tastes it."
As we walked around, I couldn't help but notice how much attention I was getting. People kept stopping to coo at me, pinch my cheeks, or wave like I was some kind of celebrity. One particularly bold woman leaned in so close I could see every freckle on her face.
"Oh, aren't you just the cutest little thing?" she said, pinching my cheek. "I could just eat you up!"
"Lady, let me stop you right there," I thought. "You're giving off serious Hansel and Gretel vibes."
She giggled, probably mistaking my glare for a cute baby face, and walked off. "This village is wild," I thought. "I'm basically a walking meme to these people."
The highlight of the evening was the pie-eating contest. A long table had been set up, and competitors were already taking their seats, including—you guessed it—Mrs. Henderson. She was wearing an apron that said Queen of the Kitchen, and the way she carried herself screamed, I am here to destroy you.
Mom narrowed her eyes. "She thinks she's better than everyone because of her stupid peach pie."
Dad shrugged. "Her pies are pretty good."
"Evan, I swear to—"
Before Mom could finish, the contest began. Pies were devoured at an alarming rate, crumbs flying everywhere. The crowd was cheering, the competitors were sweating, and Mrs. Henderson? She was annihilating the competition like a pie-eating terminator.
"Respect," I thought, watching her demolish her third pie. "If nothing else, the woman's got skills."
By the end of the night, the Hendersons had won the pie contest, but Mom managed to console herself with the fact that our lanterns were perfectly aligned. As we walked home, she muttered something about "next year" and "new recipes," already planning her revenge.
Back at home, Dad tucked me into my crib while Mom polished the already-shiny counter for the tenth time. "Goodnight, Andreas," Dad said, giving me a gentle pat. "You survived your first festival."
I smirked to myself as I drifted off to sleep. "Survived? Please. I thrived."