The dishes were stacked two days high. Bugger. I started
loading the dishwasher.
At the bottom of the heap was a jumble of sippy cups, lids
still securely fastened.
Pry off lid #1. That was apple juice.
Lid #2. Milk. Eeew.
Lid #3. Just water, I think.
Lid #4. Hmm. What is that smell? It smells like . . .
Jack flies, Superman-style, into the kitchen.
“Did Daddy put COFFEE in your sippy cup?”
“Yes. And marshmallows.”
“He put marshmallows in your sippy cup with the coffee?”
“No, just in my hand.”
Coffee. In a sippy cup. Akin to finding a wild boar in the
backyard and placing a Twinkie in between its ears. Akin to sliding a cigarette
into a box of crayons. Akin to . . . giving a two-year-old coffee. In a SIPPY
Okay, I exaggerate. I overreact. But Brett, no more coffee
for Jack, please. Or at least pour it into a regular coffee cup. I think it’s
the sippy-cup image that sent me over the edge.
Happy Father’s Day, my Bretty. When it comes to Jack’s
nutrition, you could try reading a book. But when it comes to loving the
stuffing out of your son, you wrote the book.