Mama and the milkshake

Faith is a child of routine. Of structure. Of sameness.

If she asks for macaroni and cheese, she is asking for Kraft shapes made in the microwave, not on the stove. It needs to be made with butter, not margarine and less milk than the directions call for.

If you change any of that, she knows. And believe me, you will know that she knows.

If she asks for grapes, she means green ones. Not big, not small. Medium green ones. In a bowl.

Not only is she structured in what she eats, she is situational also.

Are we at Los Cobos Mexican restaurant? She eats a chicken taco, no lettuce, no tomatoes.

Chicken taco at home? No.

Are we at Taco Bell? Cheese Roll Up. No chicken taco.

Cheese roll up at home? No.

Are we at Red Robin? Steak fries and a vanilla milkshake with sprinkles.

You see where I am going with this….certain foods have certain places and ways. She doesn’t deviate from routine.

Today while sitting on the couch, Faith looked at me and asked:

“Mama? I have milkshake?”

Ummm…a milkshake? Here?

“Banilla with frinkles.”

She asked for a familiar item out of its usual context!

Peeps, that is huge.

So I made the best gosh darn milkshake I could.

I first made fresh whipped cream. Then I used super premium ice cream and real heavy cream. I blended to the perfect consistency, topped it with the fresh whipped cream and balanced the sprinkling of the frinkles evenly. I finished it off with a prayer to the milkshake gods.

Then I nonchalantly handed it to her like this was no big deal.

She squinted her eyes, glanced at the milkshake, looked back at me, back at the milkshake again.

Then she sniffed it, turned it around a couple of times, and looked at me again.

I pretended to be reading my book because this was no big deal.

She took a sip.

And another.

Then she said “Ok.” and handed it back to me.

I took the milkshake, the out-of-place milkshake, and took it back to the kitchen…

….where I did a happy dance.

An all over the kitchen, shaking my booty, moves like Jagger happy dance.

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