I'm not the only family member who has been working on
a life list. E keeps hers magneted to the clothes dryer. That way, she reasons, we see it a lot and remember to pick activities from it. This weekend we addressed item #3:
SEE COWS MILK.
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| #3: See cows milk. |
The "where milk comes from" conversation is a popular one in our house. E knows that she was mostly a formula baby but also remembers how long L nursed (yes, I'm going to tell you again: 19 months (and eight days)) and both girls remember that for G, I mostly pumped and he prefered to bottle feed. Oh, were they fascinated by the pump.
That this was not so different a system than the acquisition of their 2% was a fact that had to be seen to be believed, so we did what any soft suburban family does: we drove to the nearest organic farm with "creamery" in the name and a reputation for delicious ice cream.
There were too many flies, was the assessment, but the ice cream was good.
And it stinks! E commented indignantly. But cross another one off the list: we've seen cows milked.
(Bonus farm photos for the soft suburbanites among us:
You should fully expect to see these images as illustrations whenever breastfeeding is again mentioned for the rest of all blogternity.)
At bedtime, I asked E about the milking, confident she'd express delight at fulfilling an item on her list. I was wrong.
But I didn't see what I wanted at all.
"You didn't?"
She held her fists up and pulled the left one down, then the right.
Where's the farmer with the bucket?
So it turns out we didn't cross anything off her list at all. But the ice cream was really delicious.
