Growing Up with Milk
Growing up with Dad, meant growing up with milk. Lots of milk – milk with every meal – big tall glasses of 2% cow treasure, with the occasional syrupy addition. “Daddy, I wish we always drank this stuff out of the chocolate cows,” I’d tell him, milk mustache over young pink lips, stringy yellow hair sticking to it and often hanging down into the glass. Dad would smile and brush it back from my face and I would giggle at the sodden strands and say, “Hair needs strong bones too, Daddy.”
I was a fickle child, like many, and there were definitely days that I did not want milk. I would try anything to get out of it, making the occasional bicep curl to prove how strong I was already for a five yr. old, not knowing then how far behind I was compared to other children my age. Dad would then pump his own bicep and I would stare wide-eyed every time with the same breathless “whoa” and put both tiny hands around it in awe. “Will I ever be that big and strong, Daddy?” – always answered by, “If you drink your milk, Alecia Kaye.”
Gulp, gulp, gulp.
As I grew older and noticed that Mom drank a lot of milk too and her bicep nowhere neared the monstrosity of Dad’s, I knew I was being duped. When we moved to Cynthiana in 1984, I started first grade in the fall and the kids at school were pulling Coke and juice and Capri Sun’s from their He-Man and Rainbow Brite lunch boxes while Mom always gave me just twenty five cents for milk. My sweet tooth overshadowed my reason and I became envious of their daily refreshments. I decided to boycott milk, which was fine at school where I could always drink water and save my quarter for new pencils or cool erasers from the big gray dispensers; it was fine at Mamaw’s where she had Papaw stock the fridge with Coca Cola Classic in a can (my favorite) for my after-school snack; but it did not go over well at home.
Mom and Dad were no strangers to the stubborn streak they had passed on to me, and rather than get angry while I stared loathingly at my cup, they tried new tricks… the best being Dad’s idea to overcome my boycott by testing my competitive side. (Having experienced my tantrum after beating me at Candyland, he knew that I hated to lose.)
“Alecia Kaye, finish your milk.”
“But Daddy, I don’t want milk today.”
“It’s good for your bones.”
“Well Jaime Grubb has strong bones and she doesn’t have to drink milk.”
Which prompted, “Fine sweetie, you don’t have to drink your milk…”, (yes!) “but I’m going to drink mine… Oh yeah, and the last one to finish is a rotten egg.” And up his glass would go, knowing good and well that mine would not be far behind.
The first time Mom experienced Dad’s ingenious approach, up her glass went (probably to hide her smile) and my cheeks went blood red, realizing the competition was much more fierce with another milk drinker and I was forced to make a snap decision on whether or not to stick to my guns with the milk boycott, or down the thick brew as fast as I could… knowing that if I faltered, I would spend the rest of the day as the rotten egg.
Dad knew to let me win and then feign distress at being the rotten egg all day, but Mom didn’t understand his psychology and her cup hit the table first, the emptiness echoing throughout the breakfast nook, and causing me to divert my hazel eyes from the liquid I was watching disappear in front of me as fast as my throat would take it, to look over at her milk mustache… it was a fine mustache indeed.
She was grinning smugly, but I did not accept defeat. I looked over at Dad, kept gulping, and he smiled at me from behind his upraised cup. He knew what I knew – the race wasn’t over until your cup hit the table, you wiped the mustache from your upper lip with the back of your hand, and then sighed audibly, “Ahh!” Mom was new to this type of milk racing and I was still in it.
It seemed like the biggest cup of milk I’d ever drank. My small hands were growing tired from holding it up, my lungs needed air but there was no time to breathe, and as Dad’s cup tilted higher and higher, I knew the end was near for one of us, Mom still assuming the fervor was all for second place. Ohhh, how her smug little grin was driving me forward.
And it happened, just like I knew it would: Dad and I finished at the same time. As he pulled his glass from his lips, I could see the pearl white drops hanging from his bushy mustache, but as I swallowed that last sweet mouthful, I knew that short arms were on my side. I slammed my cup down and wiped my milk mustache with all the passion of a Rex Chapman final second jumpshot and sighed “Ahhh!”, beating out Dad’s “Ahhh!” by mere seconds. Oh, how he grimaced in defeat. Ha-ha! I’d won. I’d won!
Mom looked a bit confused, but as I climbed down from my chair and picked up the towel beside her, I wiped her mustache and said, “It’s okay, Mom. You didn’t know the rules.” She smiled and hugged me tight and told me she loved me. “I love you too Momma… but you’re still the rotten egg.”
Today I ordered a 6 oz. filet mignon with a side of broccoli and a house salad with raspberry vinaigrette. The waiter had brought everyone at the table a glass of water, and as he asked me if I’d like a glass of red wine with dinner, I grinned across the table at my Dad and said, “How ‘bout a nice tall milk in a frosty mug?” The look of surprise from above our waiter’s bowtie only grew wider as Dad said, “Make that two.”