There's a pattern slowly but surely developing with us: in the middle of chaos, we seem to find ourselves at some farm picking our own fruit. Last summer, we picked blackberries as a welcome respite from night classes and the land of Mickey.
This year, while Teddy was in the hospital a few weeks ago, I took a break from my bedside vigil and headed out with Sarah and Will and my mother-in-law in search of my favorite fruit, straight off the vine.
Don't worry: neither of these children are in any danger of becoming renowned farmers.
Approximately half a row into our little jaunt, the peeps bailed on the manual labor
in favor of see-sawing.
I can't say that I blamed them.
Even I got tired of it after awhile, leaving Karin as the last (wo)man standing.
She soldiered on, row by row, filling her gallon plus Will's quart.
In the end our haul was impressive, especially once Karin supplemented our relatively slim pickings and bought a flat of already-picked berries.
While their Nana wheeled-and-dealed,
my mountain goats devoted themselves to climbing a pile of rocks,
and digging holes to China.
This was serious business, seeing as how the general consensus was that China is where Jesus is. So...yeah.
I think we might need to make it to church a little more regularly.
Up next: strawberry freezer jam production.
I'm putting these kiddos to work, washin' cars and mashin' strawberries.
What's on your Memorial Day agenda?