So, today was Mo’s last day of school for the year. Stupidly, I told her and Co, at breakfast no less, that I would take them out for ice cream after dinner to celebrate. As soon as I pick Mo up from school, she’s asking for ice cream, never mind the fact that she has a mouth full of Cheez-Its and had some kind of sand-encrusted watermelon at school. Anyway, we head off to the park for lunch and some play time before afternoon naps. Somewhere between then and dinner, Mo and Co manage to consumer more Cheez-Its, a quarter of a sandwich apiece, chocolate covered preztels, about gallon of juice apiece and Flavored Ice. All before dinner. Yeah, my mother of the year award in the category of “Best Well Balanced Meals” is looking like a sure thing.
Dinner time rolls around and I have been looking forward to taking them out after for ice cream, but I know that they’ve got to eat some dinner. So I make it even easier for them by doling out five (yes 5) green beans, two small piece of chicken and some french fries. All they gotta do is get into the CPC (clean plate club) and we’re off for that creamy confection of bliss. I mean, c’mon — I’m practically giving it away. Mo inhales her dinner like her name was Electorlux, while Co prefers to play with her food or try and covertly drop things over the side of her booster chair where the dog — we’re dog sitting — eagerly waits below. I am really trying to stick to my guns here about eating what you’ve been given, you know what with the starving kids in Bangladesh/China/Africa/Williamsburg and all. I hate to disappoint Mo, but if Co doesn’t finish up, then one of two things is going to happen.
1. We go for ice cream anyway and I become the mom who says one thing and does another. You know, the one who talks a lot of shiggity and that’s it? Yeah, you know the one.
2. We don’t go for ice cream, I am a mom who says what I mean and means what I say, and Hurricane Mo and Tropical Storm Co blow through town.
I’m practically begging Co to eat so that we avoid both options and that everyone wins. Wouldn’t you know this little dickens picks up her chicken and says, “Here, Morgan”! And Morgan, whirling dervish that she is, rolls through the kitchen, eats the chicken and rolls back out again, effectively catapulting her sister into the CPC. Alrightythen.
I wash the dishes, pack up Thing One and Thing Two and off we go to the local ice cream shoppe. Yes, I called it a shoppe — shop-pee. But I digress. I’m actually kind of excited about taking my girls out for ice cream. I’ve been holding down the fort while DH is putting in long hours at work and my parents are whooping it up on vay-kay — hence the dog sitting. It’s the end of the day, I’m tired, but I figure, a trip for some ice cream should boost spirits all the way around.
Two vanilla kidde cups with rainbow sprinkles later, we’re parked at a table just below a mammoth flat screen TV. Mo instantly goes into zombie mode, so focused is she on the continuous highlight reel offered up by SportsCenter, she doesn’t realize half of her ice cream is in her lap. Co, on the other hand, is now shoveling ice cream into her face so fast, sprinkles are flying furiously around her like sparkles. She then begins to pick up every sprinkle that has failed to make it to her mouth, including the ones on the floor and the table-top, and then puts them back into her cup. Nice.
Then, Mo decides that she needs water. From the water fountain. Which causes Co to chime in with an incessant, “Me,too, Mommy!” But, with Co, it sounds like she has a perpetual case of the hiccups because it comes out more like, “Me. Oooo. Ommmy!” And I patiently explain to them that we have Norfolk’s finest tap water at home, that we’re here for ice cream. Hello?! Ice cream? Good stuff here! No water. Eat the ice cream. And cue the tears.
Oy.
So we make the first of several trips to the water fountain. Water all down the front of their dresses, mixing with renegade sprinkles and rivers of melted ice cream. Where is my Tide To Go Pen when I need it? Up and down, up and down. Water. More napkins. Oops, the spoon is on the floor. New spoon. More water. More napkins. Wrong table, Co, we’re over here. Up and down, and pppbbbbttttt! “Mommy I boofa-ed, that means poop is coming. I need to use the potty”.
Oh and did I mention that I haven’t had dinner yet? My stomach is touching my back. I’m exerting an inhumane amount of self control because my desire to confidently wear a bathing suit this summer is all that is holding me back from leaping across the glass case, wrapping my lips around the soft serve spigot and pressing down on the lever. By this time, I’m about to leave them in the shop and just drive home by myself, but I know there’s all kinds of paperwork involved with that once child services catches up with you and who has that kind of time?
So I wipe them off with some napkins, load them in the car and head home. The dog shoots out of the house like a cannonball when I open the door, Mo announces she needs something to drink (WTH? You are so full of water your teeth are floating in the sockets) and Co has managed to pull off her diaper which is now stuck to the front of her dress by a melted ice cream and general toddler stickiness adhesive combo.
I need a glass of wine. And a straw. Like five minutes ago.
Suffice it to say, they were bathed and pj’ed in record time. Stories were read, prayers were said and wine was poured. And the next time I decide to celebrate something with ice cream, I’ll leave it to my go-to guys– Ben and Jerry. Oh, with a big glass of water on the side.