Picking Berry

Nope, not a typo.  We went berry picking yesterday, and that’s exactly what happened. We picked a berry.  One.  A lonesome little blackberry.  In my quest to find amusement for my tyrannical toddler, I thought that I would follow our great day at the zoo with an even greater day picking berries at a berry farm.  Brilliant.

I researched our options, called ahead to make sure that there would be strawberries available (somewhat of a rarity at a lot of farms right now here in No. Cal.), packed the kid into the convertible and sped our way down the coast.  It was a gorgeous day, and Oscar took full advantage of it by . . . sleeping almost the entire way there.  Not complaining, mind you, an hour’s sleep for this kid is a gift.  We arrived at the farm, and headed in.  I was so excited.  He loves strawberries and he loves picking things apart.  This was going to be great.  So, we head in, and I notice that no one is in the rows where the strawberries are planted.  I look closer and see that there isn’t any fruit on the plants.  Everyone was off picking blackberries.  Fine.  Whatever, a berry is a berry.  

So we found ourselves a row of blackberries and I bend down and show Oscar what to do. Pick the berry, admire your handiwork and pop it in your mouth.  Repeat, but put the new berry in the basket.  He bends down and looks up at me as if to say – I’m sorry, you want me to do what?

After some encouragement, he leans in and tests things out himself.

I’m thinking this is going pretty well.  He’s coming towards me holding a berry, showing off his handiwork.  

He turns around, presumptively to go pick some more berries.  I stand there looking at him, thinking how independent he’s becoming, and he turns back to me.  Stops.  And signs “car.”  Meaning, let’s go to the car.  Like right now.  I try to talk him into picking more berries, but he’s done, so I concede defeat.  We get back to the car, drive another hour home and that’s our day out.  Ah, memories…

June 29, 2009 - Posted by Oscar and Etta's mom | Oscar