Blueberry trauma
Along our fence, we have four little berry bushes lined up: a raspberry for Bug, a blackberry for Mouse and a blueberry each for L. E. Fant and Bear. Each morning, the children go out and attend to their little bushes, checking to make sure they have enough water, weeding their little patches and checking over the leaves for evidence of insects.

It is mostly for fun, but a little for school. We are learning about work. And the fruits of our labor. Someday, we will get to the fruits of the Spirit, but for the moment we just talk about blueberry pie, and raspberry jelly.

But yesterday, I discovered a new chore for my son. See, the blueberry bushes are covered with little white blossoms. And in the first year, you are not supposed to let them develop into blueberries so that the plant can concentrate its energy into developing a healthier root system. So, not thinking anything more about it, I instructed my son on how to carefully pluck the little blossoms.

And he flew into a temper.
But then my blueberry won't be pretty!
But it is my blueberry!
You're lying!
It's your fault!
I hadn't expected that. As carefully as he looks over his little bush, I probably should have. But he already knows that we will be doing the same with the strawberries. I thought he understood. But I guess those are just the strawberries. Not his blueberry. That he has put much painstaking labor into.

After promising him that he could collect his little blossoms in a bowl, he consented with a sniffle. And finally stopped screaming long enough for me to explain (again) how that makes the little plants stronger.
Like the strawberries?
Yes, like the strawberries.
And by the time he went out with his little bowl, he was actually smiling. Because he does want his little bush to be stronger, even if it means picking its little flowers now.