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So, the matriarch is 100...

and we still have to do the blood tests, the hair salon, the nail salon, and the strawberries. My husband and I have had a bit of a dispute about the strawberries:

My mother does not eat that much.

I look at him and can honestly say I want to hit him. With 3 children, 2 4 litre baskets each, we pick a lot of berries. Today is my third visit to the farm. We pick a lot of berries. The woman eats a lot of strawberries.

The girls eat some, too, you know.

They don't eat strawberry jam; they don't eat fresh raspberries; they do eat blueberries till the cows come home; it is not blueberry season. We are picking strawberries for my mother-in-law. This is not a disputable fact. The woman is now 100 and will eat as many strawberries as she can till she dies. She will eat strawberries covered in sugar and love the syrupy stuff at the end of the bowl more. That is that.

Well, I think your exaggerating.

Where the heck do the strawberries go then? Do you ever have a fact, an indisputable fact, that someone debates with you, contradicts, attempts to prove wrong, and, ultimately, gets mad at you for knowing the truth? Some days are just like that.

We are picking strawberries and my mother-in-law is eating them and that is our life.