Madness #18--magic sippys

My son is growing up too fast. And I seem to be getting dumber all the while.

So Marty graduated to a "big boy" sippy cup a couple months ago. I'm even contemplating packing up his bottles and storing them in the garage until Moseley #4 comes along. Gasp. Those bottles have gotten us through some sleepless nights, so it would be a rough goodbye for me.

But it's time to move on. We started little Goobie off with your basic, 6-ounce sippy, with a rubbery top so he could suck on it pretty easily. But six measly ounces just doesn't cut it anymore. I knew I had to invest in some 10-ouncers, so he wouldn't keep coming to me for refills a hundred times a day.

Went to Target. Picked out Gerber's finest--really, the ones that were on sale, and even cheaper with my coupon. And of course, we had to get the boy colors, since I knew my husband would not appreciate seeing his son drink out of a pink cup, no matter how often he takes a sip here and there when Alyssum's is lying around. But blue and green it was.

That night, I eagerly filled Goob's blue sippy with water and stuck it in the fridge so it would be nice and cold the next morning. Kind of a "good morning, breakfast wake-me-up". But when I went to retrieve it the following AM, the sippy was gone! In its place was a purple one of the same make and model. Purple?! But that's a girl color!

My mom happened to be standing there, and I showed her what happened, asking how the purple one got into the fridge. I must have been tired, because I could have sworn that someone broke into my house and pulled a sippy switch on me. But nothing else in the house was different. I was so confused. Until my mom calmly answered, "Becky, it probably just changes color when it gets cold."

D'oh! Can I blame this one on being blonde as a child? I swear, I think I have the smarts, and then pull a stunt like this one. I'm sure it'll go down in my family history next to the time I thought that Canadians said "ya" instead of "eh". My Swedish roots were surely shuddering in the one-eighth of me they occupy.

Maybe I'll blame all this on the fact that I converse with a fourteen-month-old most of the day, whose latest intellectual acheivement was to immitate his Mommy saying, "Don't touch." And to toss a beanbag at his little baby buddies. So in the grand scheme of things, thinking a sippy-snatcher broke into my fridge is really not that bad.

Right? Guys? Right?!