Tawbehwhees ...

Or, as most people call them: strawberries. I like my son's pronunciation best ...

Yesterday was a big day for me and my little guy. After visiting the local zoo in the morning he napped and I launched my new blog. As hard as it was to pry myself away, as soon as I heard him wake up (I know this because he starts talking to his stuffed animals) I was in his room with tennis shoes in hand.

We were headed to the strawberry farm for some home-grown "you pick 'em" strawberries. And I for one, was excited.

As we drove up, I knew this was going to be an experience for the books. The farm truly was picturesque. Rows of strawberries stretched out in front of us and an elderly couple sat in the shade of a beautiful old barn with baskets lined up and ready for sale. The elderly man revealed a slow, charming smile as my little man approached to get his white basket.

With basket in hand, we headed straight for the best row of berries we could find. And who knew that the first thing my son, who's refused to eat fruit that's not mashed-potato-soft (he has a texture issue), would do is grab the biggest berry he could find and shove it in his little mouth? If I'd known all I needed to do was take him to the farm, I'd have been here weeks ago.

And these are the times I kick myself for leaving my camera at home. Picture this: Your favorite 2 yr old with red berry juice encircling his mouth ... pink stained palms and fingers ... and enough strawberry and juice on his shirt and shorts to make my own smoothie. THAT is childhood at its finest.

So, for the next 30 minutes we walked up and down the rows of "tawbehwhees" incredibly focused on finding as many red fruits as we could. It didn't matter if they were mashed to smitherines, fungused beyond recognition or as green as a cucumber, he was on a mission. And he showed me every single one. Which I loved. And which led to one of life's greatest lessons.

How do you find the best, juiciest strawberries? Really? The lesson pretty much consisted of: "see these strawberries? they are hurt so they need to stay on the farm, but these are healed so they can come home with us." After taking all this in, he turned on his size 7 heel and sauntered down the rows pointing to the 'hurt' berries with an indignant "Ow, Ow, Ow, Mommy .... Ow ... Mommy, Mommy! Ow. Ow!

Mission Strawberry, Accomplished.