What Are Little Boys Made Of?

I don't think it's snips and snails and puppy dog tails after all.

I think they're made of milk.

When my brothers were teenagers my mother would buy 13 (count them, 13!) gallons of milk a week.  My brothers would sit around the table in the evening and polish off an entire gallon.  Sometimes they'd add chocolate, shake the jug and drink it right from there.

When Braeden was a toddler his pediatrician suggested we limit him to only 3 sippy cups of milk a day so he'd get more of the other stuff he needed.  Adam would ask me in Finnish if Braeden could have more maito or if he'd had his quota.  (I know, how international of us.) Braeden wasn't really fooled, or deterred.  One afternoon he staggered in from the kitchen, lugging a half full gallon of milk that was as big as he was.

MILK!

The love affair has continued for the boy. (Mark is more of a cheese man--the more exotic and expensive the better-- but this post is neither about Mark nor cheese.) Especially lately Braeden will drink a glass of milk.  Then another.  Then a final one.  Then another half glass.  (Then I hand him a napkin because of the milk mustache.) The six gallons I buy at Costco every time I go aren't lasting as long as they used to. Expiration dates are irrelevant.

Today I had a list of errands to do that was as unrealistic as it was hopeful.  I called to check in with my children periodically.  Finally, because I had a meeting at 7:00, I had to abort the mission.  I called Braeden to tell him to turn on the oven because I was coming home with a pizza to cook.  I told him I had to skip the rest of my errands.

With real panic in his voice he said, "Milk!  We need milk!"

I hadn't skipped Costco.

I've been steadily employed for nearly 13 years trying to keep that kid happy and nourished.  I'm not about to stop now.