Last Saturday, we packed the kids up and went to the Sproutwood Farm Fairy Festival.
Think: Renaissance Faire with odd folk music and fairy-related craft vendors. Actually, there are all kinds of vendors. Lots of food and pottery and leather and art.
Carl brought me to this place in 2006, when I was pregnant with Wendy, and I have been hooked ever since. (This and other invitro infusions high in groove-factor may have something to do with how bitchin-ass-awesome my kid is. Probably.)
When I toted her there as a baby, I enjoyed the private tents they thoughtfully set up there for nursing mothers, complete with a bunch of wicker rocking chairs. When she was one, she discovered the joys of chasing bubbles with the flock of other fairy children. Now, she's old enough to dig on all of the ambiance-the forest maze, the women in leather outfits leading miniature ponies, the mushroom-shaped observatory house, and all of the people wearing wings.
I feel a real sense of pride that she kind of takes all of this in stride. Band of moss- and leaf-covered Green Men roaming the premises? Check. Gypsy singer warbling in French? Tres Sweet. Spontaneous drum circle and horde of dancing fairies? Whatevs. Lets rock it.
This is just too good not to share, despite the stupid all-chin look on my face just at the end there. Please do not stare too long into my flared nostrils. You will be fall in, and then my face will be stuck that way.
The people here are awesome. All froot-loop stuff aside, you come away from this thing feeling better about humanity. People want to share; people are delighted by simple things; people understand about recycling.
Of course, when you have too much of that goodwill stuff taking place on an organic farm with a quasi-mystical theme, you are bound to scare up these people: