Or how blowing things up can solve your problems.
All milk smells sour to me, whether it is store bought or fresh out of the cow. The thought of drinking a glass of cool, frosty milk induces in me the same reaction another might have to a cup of warm spit.
I am lactose intolerant, but I did not receive this diagnosis until I was well into my twenties. I’ve hated milk since I was very young, though it was the favorite beverage of many of my family members. My grandmother, in particular, believed that to be healthy one must down at least 8oz of milk per day.
At age six, I did not understand there was such a thing as lactose. I simply realized that on the days I drank milk I ended up with nausea. On the days I did not, I was healthy. I also realized if I had more than a few sips of milk, I would have violent stomach cramps within an hour or two.
Communicating this issue to my grandmother was difficult. It was extremely rare for the reaction to follow closely with the consumption, thus she blamed my illness on over or under activity, playing particular games, hanging out with particular friends, or claimed I was making it up to get out of participation in some less than enjoyable activity. It was not long before I would throw a tantrum at the thought of visiting my grandmother. I still greatly detest the scent of lilacs, for they remind me of the huge bushes at my grandmother’s home.
When the scent of lilac came in through the open window of the vehicle, I knew we were soon going to be left in the care of my grandmother. And there, I would be forced to drink milk and later punished for my illness. Additionally, if I failed to act pleased about this set of occurrences, my mother would punish me for being rude to my grandmother.
Eventually, I got out of this situation by engaging in activity such as launching a trash can over two rooftops with just a few household ingredients, and causing pieces of GI Joes to travel dramatically in all directions. This gave me a reputation as a troublemaker and sent my grandmother’s neighbors to their fainting couches. My grandmother decided I was far to much trouble due to the damage I caused her social calendar. It was weeks after the trash can incident that she was able to show her face at the local salon.
Our new baby sitter was perfectly willing to allow me to drink juice instead of milk.
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