Strawberry pickin'

At the end of May, and subsequently the end of strawberry season, we went searching for the delicious little suckers.  And by searching, I mean hunting.  They were hard to find.  Note to self: end of the season + strawberry pickin' = tall weeds = scratches all over arms and something airborne that makes Emily sneeze for the next two days.  It's hard to enjoy the fruit of your labors, when you can't taste it.  We searched and searched and when the boys finally had enough, I found myself in the middle of the field, alone with the absolute certainty I was about to stumble upon a patch that everyone else had missed and hit the jackpot.  I didn't.  So, I took what we left in my bucket, after Luke ate most of it, and we pet the sweet puppy, paid the nice man our $8 and went home.  Next season we're going to get there nice and early. After taking a claritin.  And putting on gloves and a mask, just in case.

Also, I know there are an disproportionate amount of pictures of  Luke compared to the other kiddos.  In my defense, Luke was with me and the other two punks are now big enough to pick all on their own.  Also, they didn't have adorable strawberry dribble down their face.  And they don't say, "Daw-bebby mama.  Mmmm,  good."  They say stuff like, "I don't want to smile, mama."

Aaaaaaannnnnnd, a word of advise: When you take your children strawberry pickin' put them in red shirts.  They will eat as they pick.  They will get juice all over their shirts.  You won't notice it and pester them to be more careful.  All will be well in the world.