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Yesterday we celebrated James’ 26th birthday. It’s hard to believe that six years ago, he was just a red-faced-drunk 20 year old that I met at a college birthday party in the bowels of a dank dormitory. Ah, we’ve come so far.

Or have we?

My dad came to visit (read: free babysitter), and we went out to lunch to celebrate the day. The boys got beer. And lots of it. When the waiter asked, “Small or large?” I don’t think this is what they were expecting.

That’s a lie, this is probably EXACTLY what they envisioned. The waiter offered to put the brews in “ice buckets” to keep them cool in the roasty sun. No need. They drank them swiftly enough so as not to be effected by the heat of the day.

And apparently, Doda is promoting underaged drinking. The wee one was HIGHLY intrigued by the cool beer glass that was larger than her person. She kept lurching forward toward the glass and pulling it to her lips the way she does with any and all objects that reach her grasp. We’ve entered that phase, where EVERYTHING goes into the mouth. Cleanliness and sanitation are now mere utopian concepts in our household. We did let her place the glass to her mouth, because it feels so good when it hits your lips, but minimal brew was imbibed. Promise.

Don’t judge the drunk baby too harshly.