Nom, nom.

It was nearly a year ago that Jack introduced the world to the pleasures of raw oats. While he would like to think he started a big movement among the toddler set, my informal surveys tell me he's still the only one who prefers to partake (ideally, mid-morning).

We have seen a bit more pickiness creep in this year. He currently has some unexplainable banana intolerance--unless the banana is smothered in peanut butter or inserted into a smoothie. And despite living in Citrus Central, oranges are not his idea of a refreshing snack--even when juiced. However, he, like the children of Lake Wobegon, is definitely above average.

But he still loves his sweets.

Yesterday morning around 7am, I pulled into the driveway--having just sweated it out (in a girlish way) at the gym. He came running out of the house, opened my car door, and made a heartfelt, hopeful request: "Mom, can you put five pounds of brown sugar on my seven grain?" (complete with five stubby fingers extended for emphasis).

Nice try, kid.

For anyone who cares (i.e. Nana and Grandma), he decided upon 1 biscuit of shredded wheat (lightly toasted, just like Grandma prefers), some raw oats, a nectarine, and milk.

Trust me, I live each day full of gratitude that he loves good food. And you don't need to warn me--I know it will all fly out the window eventually (e.g. trading lunches at school, play dates with children whose mothers secretly hate me, riding his bike to the 7-11 to buy Sour Punch Straws, Flamin' Hot Cheetos con Limon, and a Full Throttle Slurpee, etc.). But I still reserve the right to brag. You can mock me when my next child will refuse to eat anything but corn pops and pizza sauce.