We ran out of milk Sunday night. . .after church. . .after we’d driven the 13 miles home. We have bagels and apple juice for breakfast, so there was some whining from The Boy who LIVES for milk, but there was no mutiny threatened.
We were sitting a the table playing a round of Mancala. I was snacking on dry Corn Chex for breakfast–straight out of the box–and Thad was too. Until he realized that something was amiss. He got a bowl, and a spoon, and went straight to the fridge when I stopped him dead in his tracks. “We’re outta milk, Boy.”
Oh. My. Goodness. The drooping of the shoulders. . .the slumping of the back. . .the dragging of feet. . .and then this declaration.
“I WANT MILK!!! I don’t CARE if it comes STRAIGHT OUT OF THE COW!!! I WANT SOME MILK.”
We remedied the situation quickly. And got some Eskimo Pies to boot. More milk don’t ya know.