Harry'd "yike a watte." Whole milk. Heavy on the ice.

A sign that you might drink too much coffee? Your toddler , uh, toddles, up to the counter at your favorite sandwich shop and says, "I'd yike a watte, police." By police, I am pretty sure he meant please.

It was actually a bit of relief, because Jen was just making fun of us for knowing the sandwich selection at that place so well, we could order for ourselves and recommend sandwiches to others by number sans menu. I mean, he could have asked for a number 4, skinny, on wheat. Although now that I think about it, that's no worse than the coffee thing. Ever since I gave birth, I've been on a coffee and lunch meat rampage-- all the pregnancy forbidden stuff is so thrilling to me. Like dental x-rays. Can't get enough of them.

So, Harry has ben capping off his mornings or afternoons with an iced latte (read: chocolate milk with ice cubes), and we've been getting lots of disapproving clucks when we refer to his beverage as a latte-- but the derision of strangers is infinitely preferable to the shrieks of a latte-less toddler.

Watte. And bedhead.

Ben doesn't even like espresso. He's pretending he's a giant.

Crappy decaf latte not pictured.-- ever since I got so old, I can't have caffeine past like noon. But my god do I need it-- see wakeful, hungry infant strapped to chest.