Last week, the boys and I set out on an adventure to find a new blueberry patch. I recently heard about a semi-local spot that grew no-spray blueberries and allowed you to come pick your own, so I loaded the directions onto my phone and the boys into our van, and off we went.
We drove through some beautiful country side full of picturesque Amish farms only to arrive 45 minutes later at a lovely looking blueberry patch with a not-so-beautiful “closed for the season” sign out front.
*insert forehead into palms*
Little kids don’t understand good intentions. All they understand is WE’VE BEEN IN THE VAN FOR HOOOOOURS, NOW GIVE US THE BLUEBERRIES OR WE ARE GOING TO TEAR THIS PLACE APART!
Or something like that.
So in my best adventurer voice, I told them that I had an even better spot in mind to pick blueberries, and isn’t this so much fun?
They weren’t convinced.
But 20 minutes later, we arrived at our old stand-by, a place that doesn’t make any fancy promises about “no-spray” and what not, but they were open and their berry bushes were loaded with blueberries.
I’ll take it.
Theo loves picking berries, and Oliver loves eating the berries he picks. It was a super hot day, so while the boys re-charged under a blueberry bush with water and peanut butter crackers, I kept on picking, basking in the sun.
Next year I’m sure we will include Bea in our annual berry picking trip. I can’t even believe that.
Three little berry pickers.
How lucky am I?