Scenario in my mind: My friend Jen and I would take our kids to the butterfly garden. The kids love butterflies, so they would be really entertained. We'd bring lunches to enjoy on the farm where the garden is located, and everyone would have a really great time. . .
The Reality: By the time we found the butterfly garden, Andy's only concern was when we were going to have our "picnic." He refused to even look at a single butterfly. Strollers weren't allowed in the garden, which left me holding Rowan (a.k.a. The Squirminator) while trying to get Andy to acknowledge even one butterfly's existence. So, to sum it up for you: after a twenty minute drive and then a twenty minute walk on gravel and dirt paths with the double-stroller, we saw the butterflies for maybe two minutes.
For lunch, we pushed our strollers down endless gravel paths (I can sweat just thinking about it), until we found some picnic benches to eat on. When we did sit, we found ourselves suddenly surrounded by chickens, begging for scraps. Which would have been fine (I guess), except Andy and Jen's little boy both screamed their heads off every time a chicken came near them. Rowan, on the other hand, was petting the chickens.
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