Mrs. Softie
I just got back from watching The Hangover with my much younger brother. More than funny, it's one of those movies that inspires your reckless side - or at least makes you fondly remember the time the floor fell out of your roommates car on the way to Nick Tahoes (Home of the Garbage Plate) and everyone in the back seat had to pile on top of each other while keeping from tipping off the seat.
So I had all this energy and not enough time to stop for a Moolaté on the way home. On the front porch were my kids with my father. They had that bored, punished look like they'd been locked out of the house in 85 degree temps.
"Mom, the ice cream truck came by!" my son anxiously exclaimed. "It was the good one, the blue one...and Papa didn't let us get anything."
My father puts up his hands defensively, "The truck was white."
"But did it have blue trim?" I ask.
Again on the defense, "Everything I ever hear about the ice cream truck is, 'no, no, it's bad.'" He is right. There is an ice cream truck that comes by at all hours, circling our neighborhood like a rabid pet. It looks like an old school bus with a cooler in the back. It sells Popsicles in the shape of a foot or Sponge Bob. Bad, very bad. Almost shady in my opinion.
My father takes his orders from me and I totally appreciate that. And, in fact, I do appreciate that he is on the cautious side. "Dad, both trucks are white. One has blue trim and came one time last year. The other is white with green and orange trim: that one is bad." I could see guilt and desperation take over a man who, if it were up to him, would grant the children an endless supply of junk food and amusement parks.
So I'm pumped from the movie, and like trying to find a lost groom, I had to find Mr. Softie who passed my house 15 minutes prior. I couldn't wait for my dejected father to pull out of the driveway so I could put the kids in the bike carriage in search of the white truck with the BLUE trim.
I couldn't hear the truck as I loaded them in, but as I got to the end of the driveway the music box chimes were detectable. Like a mirage I saw the truck coming down the cross street. The bike seat, that's set for my husband, jabbed my butt as I extend my waving hand into the air. Then he turns down my street - that never happens. It's like Dave Matthews playing Crush twice in one set. But then I see my father's car cow plowing the truck back to our house. It was way more exciting than just catching it the first time. The driver is practically taken hostage by my father's damaged reputation.
The children got their soft serve, my father got his respect back and realized that, yeah, there's a story to tell even on a Tuesday night in the burbs.
BTW, for Easter my grandmother gave us a $6 gift certificate to DQ (insert confused expression). I took the boys there soon after and ordered two small cones and a baby dish - all with sprinkles. The total came to $6.06. Cones with sprinkles from the beloved, now slightly freaked out, Mr. Softie are $1.50ea. Can you see now why it's worth hijacking?
So I had all this energy and not enough time to stop for a Moolaté on the way home. On the front porch were my kids with my father. They had that bored, punished look like they'd been locked out of the house in 85 degree temps.
"Mom, the ice cream truck came by!" my son anxiously exclaimed. "It was the good one, the blue one...and Papa didn't let us get anything."
My father puts up his hands defensively, "The truck was white."
"But did it have blue trim?" I ask.
Again on the defense, "Everything I ever hear about the ice cream truck is, 'no, no, it's bad.'" He is right. There is an ice cream truck that comes by at all hours, circling our neighborhood like a rabid pet. It looks like an old school bus with a cooler in the back. It sells Popsicles in the shape of a foot or Sponge Bob. Bad, very bad. Almost shady in my opinion.
My father takes his orders from me and I totally appreciate that. And, in fact, I do appreciate that he is on the cautious side. "Dad, both trucks are white. One has blue trim and came one time last year. The other is white with green and orange trim: that one is bad." I could see guilt and desperation take over a man who, if it were up to him, would grant the children an endless supply of junk food and amusement parks.
So I'm pumped from the movie, and like trying to find a lost groom, I had to find Mr. Softie who passed my house 15 minutes prior. I couldn't wait for my dejected father to pull out of the driveway so I could put the kids in the bike carriage in search of the white truck with the BLUE trim.
I couldn't hear the truck as I loaded them in, but as I got to the end of the driveway the music box chimes were detectable. Like a mirage I saw the truck coming down the cross street. The bike seat, that's set for my husband, jabbed my butt as I extend my waving hand into the air. Then he turns down my street - that never happens. It's like Dave Matthews playing Crush twice in one set. But then I see my father's car cow plowing the truck back to our house. It was way more exciting than just catching it the first time. The driver is practically taken hostage by my father's damaged reputation.
The children got their soft serve, my father got his respect back and realized that, yeah, there's a story to tell even on a Tuesday night in the burbs.
BTW, for Easter my grandmother gave us a $6 gift certificate to DQ (insert confused expression). I took the boys there soon after and ordered two small cones and a baby dish - all with sprinkles. The total came to $6.06. Cones with sprinkles from the beloved, now slightly freaked out, Mr. Softie are $1.50ea. Can you see now why it's worth hijacking?
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