The day has come. The day when the baby of the family decides he can no longer live another day of his life without having his previously dry bowl of cereal receive a makeover in the form of M.I.L.K.
Milk poured over cereal. My nemesis. The creator of my queasiness. The instigator of dry heaves. The reason I cannot be in the kitchen when people are eating breakfast cereal. The slurping. The sogginess. The sound of half chewing/half sloshing. The inevitable drink-the-crumb-infested-flavorified-milk from the bowl after completion of cereal eating. The smell. Oh, the smell. I find it disgusting.
This week, Mr. Kimble decided he needed milk in his bowl of multi-grain cheerios. Besides the fact that to me, cheerios is the worst offender of cereal-breath, merely witnessing this life-changing moment was bittersweet. I love that he is growing and changing and learning new things. However, I'm now grieved that I can never have post-cereal kisses from him e.v.e.r. again. Not if I want to remain in good health.
Ah. Milky cereal breath. This combines two things I never eat, and never ever together. Milk and cereal. Most of the world does, however. I understand that. I accept that. But you will never find me running one of those cute little college town eatery places that only serve endless concoctions of cereal and name-your-flavor milks. Nope. Not for me.
But for my big boy...my baby...who is not only eating milky cereal in a bowl, with a spoon, but he is sitting at the table instead of his high chair. I still love him...even if he chooses a life of milk and cereal sogginess.