Spilt Milk

**The following is a fictional piece inspired by a messy breakfast with Cody :)

They say there's no sense crying over spilt milk. But when all you have left to feed your starving child is a cup of milk, spilling it can mean everything.

All I had left to feed my little boy were a few withering strawberries, a little granola, half a slimy brown banana, ice cubes, a small loaf of bread, a little peanut butter and a cup of milk. The small container of blueberries I had been rationing was now riddled with mold, so it went grievously into the garbage bin. I toasted a thin slice of bread and spread an even thinner layer of peanut butter over top, making sure to do it while the toast was still hot so the butter would melt and spread a little easier and a little further.

My son sat eagerly in his high chair, bouncing slightly and smacking his lips, his eyes glued to the toast, tear stains on his cheeks. I tried to postpone "meal times" as long as possible in an effort to minimize how often we ate. I handed him the warm sticky toast and he took it with both hands using the tips of his fingers, putting it directly in his mouth, shaking slightly, careful not to waste any by getting it on his cheeks. He was so intelligent. Only a year and a half old and yet so intuitive and aware of our circumstances. Patient: no. Watchful: yes.

I took out our blender to put together the rest of his meal. It was a necessary evil. Lately, my little boy wouldn't eat anything unless it was toast, creamy pasta, or came in liquid form. I took off the lid and put in six ice cubes. I cut off the tops of the last four strawberries (the fifth was layered in white fuzzy mold) and put them in. Peeling the slimy brown peel off the last half of a banana with a sharp knife, I let the pale yellow and brown flesh inside slide out and plop into the blender. The last of the milk, about a cup, was still in the large gallon container in the fridge. I took it out and added a little cold water to stretch it out and poured it on top. I had been relying on those blueberries to give my son a little sustenance, and to "bulk up" this makeshift breakfast drink. He wouldn't eat any fruits or vegetables unless they were served to him disguised as a smoothie. I searched through my cupboards, full of spices and sauces and sugar, none of which were useful in sustaining health, and bit my lip, searching. I moved a bag of graham crumbs aside and found what I was hoping for: a small pouch of granola. I unsealed it and poured some into the blender.

Placing the lid on top and smiling half-heartedly at my son, who looked and smiled back, I plugged in the blender and turned it on. The ice and berries, the banana, the milk and the granola all whirled together. I let it run, hoping over time the granola would break down and blend in. Any "foreign textures" and my son would surely spit it out. I watched the mixture pulsing and swirling. It was a beautiful shade of pink, like a creamy strawberry milkshake. I turned it off.

Lately, the little man has refused his sippy cup and has instead insisted on drinking out of a regular cup like the rest of us. I was wary to begin with, worried he would spill or dump any amount we gave him. But he surprised me. He was careful and gentle, always eyeing the liquid inside and tilting the cup and his head back slowly until he got some in his mouth. He rarely ever dribbled on himself and only once did he unintentionally knock his cup over when he reached past it for something else.

I poured the pretty pink smoothie into a small cup, only filling it half way, and placed it in the cup holder on his tray. I sat down to rest and to watch him. He gingerly placed his small corner of toast on the tray and used both hands to pick up his cup. Slowly and carefully as always, he took a drink. He swallowed and pulled the cup away from his lips. A thin granola milk moustache lined his upper lip and he smiled at me and said "yummy." He sucked back the rest and when he came up for air he did as all children do and said "ahhhhhh," smiling. "More?" he asked. "Say please," I told him. "Please?" he said in his sweet little voice. I took his cup and poured the rest of the smoothie in. He drank some more and placed the cup on the tray beside the cup holder. He went back to his toast and took a tiny bite, kicking his feet absent-mindedly.

My line of sight strayed to the table and fell on the list of bills and their impending due dates. I sighed deeply and put my elbows on the table and both hands in my hair. I never thought I'd ever be one of those people who had to choose between shelter or food. Homelessness or starvation. But we were nearly there. Another few days and we would have neither.

Sitting back I took another deep breath. I looked at my son and he was watching me. I gave him a half-smile and picked up the pen on the table. He said "color!" and his sticky hand jutted out toward the pen, knocking over his small strawberry smoothie. "Daniel no!" I let out in shock as I jumped up and grabbed the cup, trying to save what hadn't already spilled out. I let out an angry frustrated groan. "Color! Color!" he insisted, reaching for the pen that was now sitting on the table. "NO!" I shouted. "YOU DRINK YOUR CUP!" "Noooo!" he cried, his lip jutting out in defiance. He sat back, scowling.

I ripped a paper towel off the roll and came back to him. Wiping up the spilled pink liquid I told him again "drink your cup," this time quieter but still stern. I was holding on to my temper by a thread. He sat still and grumbled quietly. I cleaned off his tray and thought to myself, "there's no sense crying over spilt milk." I shouldn't have screamed at him. But that little pink smoothie was all that we had left. I could make due for one more day. I was sure I could make something, anything, out of what we had in the cupboards to fill his little belly. "There's no sense crying over spilt milk." But what if milk was all you had left?

I Am Not A Unicorn

Back when I was single, there was a hang out place in Edmonton where single people of my faith would get together. It was called The Institute. People would go there to take religion classes or to do homework or just to hang out and play pool or pinball or ping pong. Congregations also held huge activities or dances there.

I went over one day for an activity and arrived early. There were sofa-chairs (what is the actual name for those things anyway?!) in the common area, so I plopped myself down sideways and rested my naked sandaled feet on the arm of the chair next to me. I pulled out my cell phone and started doing what all single people do when they find themselves alone in a public place: texting.

A few minutes went by and other singles started to arrive. I didn't recognize any of them until a short round blonde young man came in through the door. He greeted me and I smiled and we started to chat. Things were just fine until... He looked down at my feet (which were nearly at his eye-level) and he got this sort of awkward disgusted look on his face. "Your feet are really dry," he said, looking back in my direction. I lifted and turned my foot so as to get a better look, and low and behold, the side, just under the ankle, was a little white and flaky with dryness. I put my foot back down and looked back at him to see what he would say next. "A little moisturiser right there would clear it right up," he said a little cheerfully, as though he wasn't sure if I already knew this. I don't know if I responded but he eventually walked away and I planted my feet firmly on the floor where they belonged and tried to reabsorb myself into the screen on my cellphone.

Today was one of those days where I, the mother of a one-year-old who runs through the house terrorizing everything within arms reach, truly pampered myself. I showered *gasp*, washed my hair with expensive shampoo, and even shaved my legs! After towelling off my hair and wrapping myself in an unnecessarily large bath robe, I applied a moisturising blueberry mud mask to my face and relaxed on my bed for 10 minutes listening to my iPod on shuffle. After I rinsed my face, I smeared one of Bath and Body Works' lotions on my legs and feet. That's when I remembered The Young Man at The Institute and The Awkward Encounter of The Flaky Feet.

My question is this: who decided that the standard for public appearances should be so high and specific. If a mother of several young children walks into a grocery store wearing sweat pants and a shirt with pancake batter crusted on the hem and her hair tossed into a less than beautiful "messy bun", why is she judged? Why do people say that she should take better care of her appearance and that having 4 kids is no excuse? I'm sorry, but I am a woman, not a fairytale creature. From time to time I have greasy hair, chipped nail polish, dry, uneven skintone, hair all over my body, and yes, even pores! I am not a smooth, symmectrical, freshly painted, high-heeled, shiny unicore from a storybook. I am a normal every-day human being. So when you see me, most of the time my hair will be frizzy in places, I will probably only be wearing a little mascara, and my clothes might not fit quite right. Excuse me for having a baby and relearning how to dress to my body shape. Of course there will be days when I may or may not decide to dress up -- parties, date night, the random Tuesday -- but don't make a big deal out of it if I don't. Take me as I am! At lease I don't smell bad...most of the time.