During my childhood, the rule was that I had to drink a full glass of milk every night with dinner. And we’re not talking a little juice glass. More like an 8 ounce Big Gulp. And yes, I haven’t broken any bones. Though a case can be made that this data does not imply causation.
It was torture. I remember holding my nose and glugging it down like it was turpentine. There’s even a story from when I was a toddler, my dad tried to trick me and told me it was white juice. That only worked once. Apparently when I was a baby I wouldn’t even drink milk. The doctor advised my mom to feed me pudding. I love pudding. And creme brûlée and custard and ice cream and whipped cream and cheese and all dairy derivatives. Just don’t make me wash down raw materials.
During dinnertime milk martyrdom, I told my parents it tasted like warm seagulls. That has been my lifelong descriptor. I have never waivered. I have no idea where it originated, but I’m sure my procrastination didn’t help the temperature. And I’m a beach town kid and have smelled many seagulls.
I finally escaped to college and am fairly certain I haven’t consumed an 8 ounce glass of cow’s milk in one sitting since. Unless you count chocolate. Never dismiss the value of a glass of chocolate milk as a late dinner. Fast, filling and very little clean-up. Don’t tell the boys.
When I was in college and living in Spain, I came across the concept of shelf-stable milk in boxes. One more reason not to drink it by the glassful. I would sometimes eat breakfast with my roommate’s grandmother and she would cluck and chide me for eating my cereal with cold milk. It was a horrible idea! Likely to cause a great “eshock” to my system. She practically ordered me to eat my cereal with warm milk.
Meanwhile, I then proceeded to fall in love with and marry a guy who spent much of his childhood on a dairy and frequently waxes poetic about the many admirable qualities of la lech. Given his devotion, you’d think he woke up each morning and guzzled it directly from the source. I’m 98% sure he didn’t.
Years later, Jacob comes along and he’s a milkaholic. The child has just turned six and he still begins every single morning with an 8 ounce sippy cup of warm milk. He guzzles it down while running his fingers inside the edge of his favorite pillowcase. I kind of wonder what his college roommates will say…
Nate, on the other hand, has recently weened himself from warm sippy cups of milk. I could tell his interest was waning last year. Now he likes me to warm up his sippy cup of milk so he can pour it onto his cereal by himself.
He’s our little Spanish grandmother… to my surprise, he’s said nothing about seagulls.