He Doesn't Have Red Hair, I Swear!

I don't know how much more wholesome we can get. It's one thing to bake cookies with 6 little kids in tow. It's another to toast s'mores in the fireplace when the power goes out. But milk delivery? In this day and age?


Nevertheless, we started milk delivery this week, from Rosenberger's Dairy. The quaint glass bottles have gone the way of VHS and Atari, but we did get some quaint metal boxes to show off on our front porch.

It's a practical solution for us, since with so many kids and coffee-drinkers in the house we go through a lot of milk. In fact, our milkman was pretty impressed with our first order, which was a conservative 5 gallons. (I love the fact that I can say, "our milkman." It basically means, "I'm a good mother. I care enough about my kids to have fresh milk delivered right to my door at odd hours in the morning.")

Which brings us to the title of this post. As Amy can also attest, as a brown-haired mother married to a brown-haired father with a red-haired kid, you get a lot of inappropriate questions about the genesis of said red hair. So don't even ask.