Notes from the crib

This morning after work, George and I went hunting for a pumpkin patch. I feel funny calling them patches, because they are nothing like up north where you'd actually go to a place where pumpkins are grown. Here, you go to church lawns (or the Christmas tree farm) and walk amidst the piles of pumpkins trucked in from climates that can actually sustain a pumpkin crop. But I digress.

We found a large church lawn covered in pumpkins and George obliged me by posing for pictures. He even walked on his own through the rows, on the uneven terrain, going five or six steps before toppling over.

I tried to get him to sit on some pumpkins, but he didn't like that and kept trying to stand up instead. It was most amusing when he'd figure out how to stand up and take a few steps.