Here's something to know about me: I am not so great with family traditions. I like them, and if they are executed by someone else I will gladly partake. If it's left to me, though, well, um...
However, there is one exception: strawberry picking. Every year since Elijah was but a wee lad of one-half years (that's six months in normal-speak), I have shlepped the family out to Shlagel Farms for our annual strawberry eating, picking and wearing extravaganza. And by doing this one thing annually, I have seen my children grow and change before my very eyes. Last year, I even documented our trip on this very blog.
This was, for example, the first year that Elijah actually helped pick strawberries in a way that contributed to the family take-home. He ate his fair share, but he picked two quarts that did not immediately enter his mouth. Isabel, content last year to sit and bask in the the light of the summer sun, was impatient to walk up and down the aisles hand-in-hand. (That was two weeks ago, and now she's happy to toddle all on her own.)
After the picking, we picnicked at the Shlagel Farms playground, full of strawberries and sun. This time last year, Elijah was more or less indifferent to the Iz. This year, the flavor of their relationship is more of a love mixed with antagonism (but the love generally wins out).
Strawberry picking may be one of the few family traditions that I have thus far managed to reliably pull off, but goodness, it sure is a sweet one.