My son, the long-haired hippie vegetarian* (Now with photo!)

My husband is a man's man, a curious blend of part John Wayne, part Archie Bunker.  He likes red meat, guns, and killing things made of meat with his guns.  When he's not busy shooting and eating, he's probably doing something with tools.

He's a real man of a man.  I like him.

My son, contrarily, is so far turning out to be a committed vegetarian.  I know, I know.  It is early.  He could change his mind next week or next year.  But for now, he's holding the "meat is murder" line pretty well.  Daddy is not so thrilled.  If he had his druthers, Jack would be eating venison that he killed and gutted himself. 

We discovered our son's vegetarian lifestyle last week when I found jars of first stage turkey, chicken and beef baby foods.  One of the many wonderful things about Jack is that he likes food.  Period.  The kid loves to eat.  That is, until he tried baby chicken.

I admit, maybe my reaction to the little jar of baby chicken set a bad tone for him, but DEAR GOD it smelled like cat food.  Nasty, stinky, will-someone-please-hand-the-cat-a-breathmint cat food.  But, I assumed that Jack would love it because it was food.  Beloved food.

Oh, was I wrong.  With the first spoonful, his sweet little face twisted and contorted into a "Mommy, I thought you loved me!" expression.  His little tongue protruded and he started making a gagging sound.  Of course, I did what any good mother would do:  I laughed, grabbed the camera, and gave him another spoonful.  His opinion didn't improve by the second or third bites, and by the fourth bite his expression suggested that I fed him a very sour lemon covered with acid.  Even I wasn't cruel enough to feed him more.

We retired the chicken to the trash, and I fed him baby carrots that night.  All was forgiven. He's a real carrot-hound.

Thinking that the chicken incident was just a fluke, we tried the turkey a few days later.  Same reaction.  Same mirth.  More photos.

So for right now, my son is a sweet little hippie vegetarian kid.  Stay cool , Moonbeam.  Momma loves you.

(This photo was taken just as the "something ain't right here" realization set in.)

*And in my book, there's nothing wrong with being a long-haired hippie vegetarian.

Dear Mom. I hate shoes. Love, Jack.

We have a problem in our house.  A serious battle is being waged, and the stakes are escalating every day.

I love shoes.  I really love baby shoes.  They are a-freaking-dorable.

Jack, on the other hand, hates baby shoes.  HATES them.

Right now, we have a great collection of adorable baby shoes:  little tennies, moccasins, sandals, Van's, cowboy boots, and everything in between.  They are sitting on his dresser, unworn.  In other words, Jack is winning. 

Whenever I wedge a shoe onto his protesting little foot, I try to give him praise and encouragement: "What a handsome baby!  You look so grown up in that sweet shoe!"  And in turn, he'll curl his little lip into a scowl that evolves into a "waaaah" before escalating to a full-on OMGMYFEETAREONFIRE scream.  This is especially fun in public, where all passersby clearly think I'm breaking his ankles.

I can't help myself.  Jack got a new pair of shoes on Sunday.  They are black and purple, with little skulls.  He'd look so badass if he'd just quit crying.