enter, the peas.
Three types of them, to be precise - but the specifics of peadom were irrelevant next to the joy of the boy collecting
stuff. Sigh.
No, wait - I lie. In truth, we love our jaunts out to the farm, especially
this lovely local one. Getting ourselves out of the house takes a crack bunch of sheepdogs right now, and occasionally leaves me hoarse and gasping words that I really would rather the boys didn't learn. But then we're out, and a zip down the road from this quiet greenness, a wisely shaded picnic table, and this:
In the field, the boys stop grumping about having to brush their teeth, there is no Lego to divert them to absolutely essential something that
must come before changing out of their jammies. And I try not to gape at the idea that all of this joyful, careful focus is happening over - peas.
Yep. Snap peas, sugar peas, snow peas - and now? our peas.
What on earth will I do with them all?
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