06 Friday Jul 2012
The kids and I made our weekly grocery run on Wednesday, and while there we bought an extra-large clamshell of strawberries (betcha didn’t know the plastic container strawberries came in was called a clamshell, huh? You’re welcome), two containers of blueberries and about three pounds of red grapes. The strawberries alone were pretty enough to take your breath away, perfectly plump and a shade of red once reserved for Audrey Hepburn’s lips. Our refrigerator’s fruit tray was completely wiped out by early Thursday afternoon because instead of monitoring my kids’ trips to the fridge and rationing their fruit intake to ensure our fare lasted the entire week, I let it be.
Something about summer does that to me. No, scratch that. Something about summer does that for me.
So I packed the kids up again today – just two days later – and bought another two clamshells of strawberries, two more containers of blueberries (equally as beautiful as the strawberries from Wednesday) and more grapes. And we’re on pace to beat our old record.
Thanks to the season, I no longer worry about grocery budgets or … well, anything.
If there’s work to be done, I make sure it gets done, sure … eventually. But if there’s a wading pool that’s just been filled and some freshly frozen juice pops just pulled out of Grandma’s freezer, well, work can wait. Summer’s here, and in North Idaho she doesn’t stick around for long.
Fresh vegetables from Grandma’s garden. That’s summer.
But mostly summer is this, watching as your children and your husband’s parents play together as if the years that separate them don’t matter. Because, well, they don’t. This matters. Spraying Grandma with a hose matters. Grandpa kneeling into a two-foot kiddie pool to spend as much time as possible with his gradndchildren matters.
Eating through a clamshell of strawberries in a day simply because they were so delicious matters. Budgets and laundry and schedules … that’s winter’s work.