Growth Charts

It occurred to me last night while I was picking blackberries, that I can age my daughter by her role in the blackberry picking. Some people have growth charts hanging on their wall. That'd just be too easy.

The summer Anna was two, she was fearless and ferocious in her quest for the purple fruits. Briars were no match for Miss Anna. She dove in head first. She ate most of the berries she picked and about one third of the ones I put in the bucket. She giggled and bounced like Tigger during the blackberry adventures.

When Anna was three, she was more of a pointer. "There's one, mama." Older and wiser, she left the scratches and pricks and the bramble bites to me. She understood well what became of anyone who got too close to the limbs of the blackberry bush. Mind you, she still managed to return to the house with a purple ring around her mouth.

This year Anna is four. She picks a few berries and then talks a lot. She eats a few berries and then she talks a lot. She points out a few berries and then she talks a lot. She is four now, and, oh so good at it. She only dumped the berries on the ground twice. And, yes, she came back in the house sporting a lovely blackberry juice moustache. She claims that she only eats the berries that she picks.

Eventually, she'll figure out like her brother and sister, that you can shirk the blackberry picking and still get to eat cobbler. That's okay. I imagine picking blackberries quietly might be a nice change.