The boy has issues with yogurt.
Oh, he LIKES yogurt. He likes it very much. But he only likes certain flavors that pass his yogurt prerequisites. One of his criteria for purchasing little yogurt containers is simply this: If it has chunks in it, don’t buy it, because he won’t be eating it. That’s simple enough, but it rules out all fruit-at-the-bottom flavors, as well as Yoplait’s strawberry, which you’d think the boy would enjoy, but because there are microscopic chopped bits of berry bodies floating around in all the pinkness, he refuses to touch it.
I will not eat the chunks, I say;
I will not eat them any day;
I will not eat the globs of pear;
I will not eat them anywhere.
Something like that.
Yoplait’s orange creme is above and beyond the boy’s favorite. As we were hustling through the grocery store earlier this week, I stopped in front of the refrigerated yogurt section and began speculating on all the flavors available, which wasn’t a fun thing to do, considering that the temperature outside was 1700 degrees BELOW zero. Frankly, standing in front of a cooler at the grocery store, when it’s that cold outside, is not how I spell fun, but I was on a mission to gather yogurt containers to throw into the cart, so that the boy would have one of his primary sources of calcium available to him.
Yogurt. Chocolate milk. Cheese pizza. That’s the boy’s calcium intake. Well, those and ice cream, but Mama puts the smack down on a lot of ice cream around here. It’s what has gained me the unpopular vote around these parts and threatens my reelection.
As I was stomping my feet, trying to keep the frostbite at bay in the refrigerated section, the boy piped up and said in a flat, bored, monotone, “Just get orange. I only want orange.”
And so I did. I actually bought several containers of Yoplait orange creme, and nothing else, according to my instructions.
And this morning, as the boy crawled up on the stool at the kitchen counter for breakfast, sporting what could easily be The Best Bed-Head Award for Twenty-Ten and grumbling that the frigid temperatures had obviously not been cold enough to even gain him a two-hour delay with school, I set a plate in front of him.
Toast. Two sausage links. Orange yogurt.
He picked up his spoon and said, “It sure would be nice to have something other than orange yogurt around here. Like, I wish we had some vanilla yogurt in this house.”
I love that boy.