Time passes, seasons change and the boys grow older, taller and louder by the minute (and the decibel), but one thing seems to remain consistent ... their love of strawberry picking. Last year, we spent at least a couple of mornings a week, between June and August, at our local farm selecting the reddest and ripest of the plentiful crop. It's serious business when you're two and four and determined to have a punnet full better than your brother's (check out the levels of concentration and the sneaky looks at each other's haul in this post - Jam-tastic).
We've had the best couple of weeks. The sun shone, we visited family, went out with friends, the boys started to show signs of going beyond tolerating each other and venturing in to actual liking each other territory, I finally got on top of all my blog work and other writing projects, Paul and I popped to the pub for a child-free lunch, and I managed to read two whole magazines without any interruptions or needing to move the laundry from the washing machine to the tumble dryer. I even went so far as to post a smug Facebook update along the lines of being on top of life for once. That was my undoing, wasn't it? And so it all began to unravel.