Berry Pickers, Unite!

~the labor force~

~the yield~

~the squint~

~the farmer~

~the embrace~

~the squint 2~

~the reveal~

Last weekend I managed to pull Terry along with us berry-picking. He's not as quick to sacrifice a precious day off to drive into the country to pick your own (insert curse word here) fruit. Once there, however, I think I heard him say, "Why don't we do this all the time? I'm coming back early next week for raspberries!", (clapping his hands together. Oh, and look at the skin-so-soft hands of this animator in the last photo. Perfect hands reveal the perfect strawberry.)

Having Daddy join us on a weekend adventure made those (1) strawberry smoothies, (2) strawberry ice pops, (3) strawberry frozen yogurt, (4) strawberry jello, (5) strawberry bread, (6) and strawberries with nutella- whew!- taste so much better. And even after filling three 2 gallon buckets completely full of strawberries, we've not yet grown sick of strawberries.

My Family, The Linguists

Setting:
sitting around my parents' large dining room table with parents, grandparents, brother, husband, and children, eating leftover hamburgers and hot dogs, and having a post Memorial Day "Round Table".

Grandma:
(she's just said something having to do with the way people "do it differently in the south", most likely referring to the way "those bumpkins" do "their idea of fun" so very "wrong")...

"It's not Brooklyn, that's for sure."

Mom:
"Ma, you wouldn't like it there anymore anyways. It's not like it was. It's gone bad again."

Grandma:
"Yeah, I know. I mean, look at all the nationalities there. It's gotta be bad, right?"

Mom:
"Yeah, since Juli- Juliano (Giuliani) cleaned it up when he was governor, the new guy doesn't care and the streets are all dirty again. Shame."

Grandma:
"But not Long Island! Whatevah he did there was great, cause nothin's changed since we lived there. I was talking to Evelyn's grandaughter the other day, and I says, 'How is it these days?', and she says, 'Same. Nothin's changed'. So, Brooklyn and the city have definitely gotten worse, but Long Island is still wonduhful."

Mom:
"Oh yeah. It's still lovely there. Oh yeah."

Both nod in agreement.

My brother, who lives in Brooklyn, somehow misses this enlightening sociology lesson and walks away. (Had he heard, he'd have said something- for sure.)

My dad, who has an opinion about all things that don't matter, missed it too. (Had he heard, he'd have passionately agreed or disagreed- for sure.)

My grandfather most likely heard, but could care less about anything but the hot dog that was in mid-bite. (I doubt he'd have had an opinion about crime if he were mugged and informed by the robber that "Guliano" told him do it.)

My husband is having a conversation about who knows what with his sketchbook, as a mode of married-into-opinionated-family survival. (Had he heard, he'd have- no, he definitely wasn't listening.)

My children are eating their hot dogs wondering why they don't eat this tender cut of meat more often at their own home.

And I'm stuck being the only person who heard this thick, half-baked exchange about New York, and I'm too amused by their referring to good-friend-"Juliano" to point out my Grandma's very politically incorrect and outdated m.o.

Ladies, Newsweek is looking for a columnist with an exceptional command of the English language, insight into current events, and the ability to really make your reader think... just be sure to get your editor to look over your articles first.

Just Wondering

Fiona just asked me,

"Are you going to die before Daddy?"

Then she took a sip of juice.

Mother's Day Mantra Part 2

Being a mom has changed so much of who I thought I'd be at my age. With every passing day with these children, the good and bad, I'm always reminded that being a mother is a gift. We play a part in the molding of our children's future, and yet, we get to watch them grow into independent people, so much cooler than we can attribute to our own doing. We get to watch them learn about the world with wide curious eyes. We get to snuggle and rub backs at bedtime. We get to feed them all the foods we loved AND hated growing up. We get to teach them all the things in life that we deem interesting and awesome. We get to love someone else more than we love ourselves. Motherhood is definitely a gift.

On our way to church this morning, Fiona nonchalantly said a curse word (not repeatable) in such a perfect context with the most natural and certain usage of the (not repeatable) word, you'd think she said that (not repeatable) word all the time. Or even their less offensive cousin curse words. There's really no questioning the source either when your child is 1) four years old, 2) not in school, and 3) both her parents turned seven shades of red at once. We were both guilt-stricken immediately, which only means that BOTH parents are sailors, exponentially increasing the likeliness that the (not repeatable) word will resurface from the mouths of children who've not yet even tasted undiluted juice. Sigh.

That's more like it. Honesty is part of the Mother's Day liturgy. It feels so good. You're not allowed to kiss your sleeping baby's head tonight before acknowledging that they and you are complete and total screw-ups. With that said, motherhood really does feel like a gift. One this @#$%! sailor doesn't deserve.

Happy Mother's Day, Sisters!

Velcro and Lace

A friend stops by a few days ago to tell me this wonderfully romantic story.

Her husband works on the Delta runway. He wakes up at 4:50am to get to work by 5:00am. In the dark of their bedroom, he throws on his uniform which consists of a blue shirt, dark blue pants, and a reflective vest to keep him from getting smushed by an airplane. Once there, he has a quick cigarette in the break room before starting the chore of loading luggage into the underside of 747s for the next 8 hours. It is, by definition, the most blue-collared American job that exists.
And with such a job description comes a classy group of men, as you can imagine.

He walks into the break room for that morning smoke and is greeted by a co-worker,

"Had a wild night I see?"

"Not really. Why?"

"Dude. Look down."

Hanging from the velcro of of his reflective vest was a pair of my friend's panties, somehow overlooked in his speedy exit.

She gets a call later that day saying,

"You are going to kill me."

"What? What did you do?"

"I had to throw away a pair of your panties."

"Uhhh... ok. Why?"

After explaining the situation, she's so relieved that they were clean, she could care less that they were tossed out with his morning cigarette. I say he could have balled them up and put it in his pocket (kind of romantic, right?). Or worn them home to her.