Last night we were preparing for our after dinner ritual of ice cream. Ben & Jerry’s Creme Brulee anyone? Demetri was scooping out the ice cream into three little bowls. Zoey was hanging off the kitchen counter with her finger tips while bouncing on her toes, “Ice cream! Ice cream!” I was pretending to be a cool, restrained, patient adult. That lasted about 11 seconds. I gave in and joined the chant, “Ice cream! Ice cream!”
Usually, once we all have our bowls, we sit around the kitchen table or sometimes hang out on the couch. But last night, due to some wack-a-doo toddler thought process, Zoey perceived us as a direct threat to her ice cream. She clutched her bowl to her chest with one hand while she waved her other hand in front of her in the universal signal of Get Away From Me. Zoey looked up at us through narrowed eyes and said, “Mommy, Daddy, NO! Zoey ice cream!” And then she fled to the safety of the play room.
Demetri and I sat on the couch, put our feet up, and prepared to enjoy our creamy deliciousness without the presence of The Vulture. The Vulture usually downs her ice cream and then comes and begs for ours. When we offer her a spoon full, she puts it in her mouth, slobbers all over it, but actually doesn’t take any ice cream off the spoon. Nice.
So there we sat, Demetri and I on the couch, and Zoey huddled in defensive mode in the playroom, all enjoying our tasty frozen treat. We sat in silence savoring each heavenly spoonful. As the ice cream melted in my mouth I could hear Zoey scraping at the bowl with her spoon and slurping the ice cream into her mouth. She smacked her lips, paused, and yelled out, “Pretty good!” Demetri and I shook with silent laughter. Then, from the play room, a clank, a bang, and “Uh-oh! Mess! Mess! Messsssssssssssssss!”