I have never been much of a milk drinker. As a child I was the one left at the table with an empty plate, but a full glass of milk. I think it goes back to spending time on my grandparent’s dairy farm. Seeing where it came from and practically drinking it from the source was a little too much for me.
A while back I came across a picture of myself as a child sitting with my cousins at the dinner table at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. We all had plates and cups in front of us. My cousins had emptied their milk glasses, while little Lacey’s was still full. I had to chuckle at that sight.
If I ever do pour a glass to drink, it has to be in a GLASS glass and must be consumed within seconds of being poured. There cannot be any chance of it becoming warmer than it was in the jug. Don’t even mention adding ice. That’s just insane. And it goes without saying that I would never, not ever share anyone else’s milk.
When I have a bowl of cereal, the amount of milk poured over it is minimal and what is left at the end of the cereal eating goes down the drain. It is never drunk. Ever. Well, not by me.
My children do not share in my rules of milk consumption. This was demonstrated this morning as William slyly pulled my cereal bowl over in front of him and proceeded to drink the remaining milk. My stomach turned a little, but he’s so cute I got over it.
I’ve come to terms with my relationship with milk. We may never be friends, but I’m happy to look the other way as my children make their own milk rules or lack thereof.