Milk: A Horror Story

It is 1986, a young boy sits in his kitchen. Clad only in tighty-whiteys, he is feverishly shoveling his milk and sugar laden Cheerios down his throat. "Hurry up!" his brother demands, "We're going to be late for church!" In a desperate attempt to finish the last of the floating-Os, he lifts the bowl to his face. The sweet, super-saturated sugary goodness graces his lips. The last few remaining oats, having avoided the spoon, will not escape the ritual act of drinking the milk from the bottom of the bowl. Then it happens.

Milk runs down the side of his face, the spoon shifts, he loses his grip. Almost in slow-motion, the bowl falls, dousing the boy from head to toe. He sits frozen, coated in the sour, sticky solution and dotted with Cheerios. "Nice one," as more sibling encouragement arrives, "don't just sit there, get in the tub!" His world spiraling out of control, he stumbles to the bathtub for relief that cannot come soon enough. Thoughts and movements become disjointed while the boy disconnects himself from what is happening. As he is tries to block out the situation and shutdown his senses, there is one that will never leave him: the smell. The rank, foul milk smell induces dry-heaves and the boy gags uncontrollably.

Milk and cheerios had infiltrated my hair, ears, and even my underwear. That's right. This is my horror story. Ever since that fateful day milk has been my nemesis; making me wretch at the sight or smell of it. As a kid, after finishing my cereal, I would race to the kitchen, cereal bowl at arms length, dry heaving all the way (somewhere my sister is laughing). I even switched to using water for my Corn Flakes. Water plus cereal sucks. It's mushy. Ultimately I would give up milk entirely.

Twenty years and a couple of kids later and milk and I are on speaking terms again. It was impossible for it to be any other way. Kids love milk, it literally is their lifeblood. Is there anything more mammalian? And as such, you have to get used to having milk spilled on you, puked on you, or otherwise bathing in milk. Finding a few randomly hidden sippy-cups filled with month old curdled milk could cure any phobia. While I am still bothered by a little milk spillage, it doesn't bring me to the verge of panic-stricken vomiting anymore. And yes, I can again drink the milk from the bottom of the bowl.