Do You Know The Muffin Man? ('Cause if he's anything like the Ice Cream Man, he's a jerk).

We bought our first house and moved to our current neighborhood in August of 2007, when I was about 6 months pregnant (so many things wrong with that sentence). One hot summer evening as I sat on our newly purchased stoop, swollen and miserable, sweaty and generally overwhelmed, I heard the far-off tinny strains of "Turkey in The Straw". In our last neighborhood, the only thing that would be left of the ice cream truck after one round would be the windshield wipers; everything else would have been stripped and sold. So I held my breath and waited, and sure enough, like a frosty beacon of hope, a white van emblazoned with pictures of snowcones and fudgesicles turned the corner. As a group of shrieking, giggling children formed a line, waving their dollar bills in the air, my eyes filled with tears at the purity, and nostalgia, of the scene. One day, this unborn child and I would hear the same schmaltzy music, and run for the truck together. After all, The Child and Ice Cream were destined for long and beautiful friendship. By the time she was six months along, her blood was pretty much composed of 33% Frosty, 33% Mint Oreo Blizzard, 33% Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby, and 1%....boring biological stuff.

Which brings us to today. We've had a tough time nailing down the ice cream truck's schedule. We either hear the truck and can't locate it, or we see it pass and then can't make it stop. I hated seeing her little crestfallen face when she realized each time that she wasn't getting a neon yellow Spongebob popsicle with bubblegum eyes yet again(I know, I know, gross and nutritionally appalling...but, it's the experience that counts, right? RIGHT?? Well...no one asked you :-P.). Failure is no longer an option. Tonight, we are finding that truck, and you and me, kid....we're getting you that ice cream!! *cue "Eye of The Tiger", neon warmup suits, Mr. Miyagi, etc etc.*

And then....it happened. It was like kismet. Like providence. Like...God just wanted us to eat ice cream.


It was 7 PM, and we were making delicious play-doh burgers with bright purple french fries. At the first few notes of "Turkey in the Straw", The Child and I froze, all senses on alert. As the notes became louder, we inched, slowly and deliberately towards the door, like a pride of lions stalking a delicious brightly colored frozen zebra. (Okay, at a grand total of two, we would be a pretty pathetic pride, but roll with it.) When I carefully opened the door and saw the ice cream truck parked off to the side, it was on. "GO MACKENZIE GO!!!!" The Child held the screen door open, as I shoved The Dog back with one hand and grabbed my purse with the other. There was a brief struggle as the door handle tried to claim my purse, but I was victorious. Unfortunately, that quick battle cost us valuable time. Once I got detangled and to the bottom of the steps, I was met with teary eyes and a quivery bottom lip. "He did not wait, Mommy. No ice cweam tonight." Sure enough, the truck had moved on. As The Child slowly came back up the steps, Mommy Lion came alive. Oh. Hells. No. "Come on, MacKenzie. We're getting ice cream." She looked up. "But I don't even hear da music." We. Are. Getting. Ice. Cream.

I grabbed her hand, and started stomping down the sidewalk, looking left and right, searching for any sign of the truck. We covered blocks in seconds. Then....victory. In front of us, a couple of streets away, sat the elusive ice cream truck. Tonight was going to be the night. It was our time!!! But all of the sudden - the truck suddenly started, and the music began playing again. Is it leaving?? There is no way that I am chasing this damn truck all over the neighborhood. It is now or never. And I was off.

What I neglected to remember in my determination and focus was that I really initially intended to just run to the truck, grab an ice cream, and run back to the house. So I was wearing terry cloth booty shorts a couple of sizes too big, a spaghetti sauce splattered white t-shirt, and no shoes. Unfortunately, in my awesome warp speed, I began to lose my shorts...so I yanked them back up with the hand not holding my precious child. Again, unfortunately, I was a little enthusiastic with my yanking up, so I just as quickly began tugging them back down again before the neighborhood watch started tucking dollar bills in my waistband. So basically, anyone out for a quiet post-dinner stroll either stared in fascination or ducked for cover at the barefoot, sloppy frizzball who couldn't figure out if her shorts were on or off, hauling a maniacally giggling toddler tucked under one arm, all the while hollering "YOU BETTER NOT GO ANYWHERE, ICE CREAM PERSON, SO HELP ME GOD!!!!!"

Yup. Putting the class into classy. That's us.

Needless to say, the ice cream man's attention was grabbed, and the truck turned back off. As we skidded to a stop in front of the pass out window, I was torn between a sense of superhero triumph and absolute and abject mortification. Meanwhile, The Child struggled out from beneath my arm and shot the man a beautific smile. "Hi dere. I'm MacKenzie. I like yo' car's music. I fink that's my jam." The ice cream man was struck speechless, and seemed torn on which of us to be more concerned about. Yeah, we get that a lot. All that matters is that we made it. The fact that he didn't have Spongebob didn't even phase The Child...apparently Tweety Bird made a more than acceptable substitute.

And so we sat there on the curb, licking our hard won, well-deserved, and rapidly melting treats. I glanced over, and watched a sunbeam bounce off of my daughter's curly head, as she turned and grinned sloppily at me. "I sure love ice cream, Mommy." So do I, baby girl. And this moment was everything that I had hoped it would be on that hot evening a few years ago. <3

Anti-Breakfast of Champions

Sleep is not a term I'm terribly familiar with. Sometimes because of work - either of the clickety-clackety variety, or of the "OMFG THERE'S NO WAY THREE PEOPLE CAN ACCUMULATE THIS MANY DISHES" as the dog-hair tumbleweeds amble by" variety. Sometimes by choice, because the house is so very quiet and peaceful when everyone is sleeping, and I can catch up on email and the latest episodes of award-winning television like "America's Best Dance Crew" or "Ice Loves Coco" in peace (Don't you judge me. That's some good stuff right there.) . And sometimes because The Child - regardless of how deeply ensconced she is in a Daddy's Girl phase - feels the need to ask ME burning questions at 3 AM like "Where does air goes when the fan blows it?" or "Do you fink I can wear a dress later?" or "Is the sun behind the moon at nighttime?" I am also the go-to gal for nightmares, any illness, monsters chasing, and the 6 AM pancake request. Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't have it any other way. But I do forget what 4 consecutive hours of sleep feels like.

Sunday was one such morning. Due to customers taking "endless coffee refills" to a whole new level, I got home from waitressing around 11:30 Saturday night. I took care of a couple of things, chitty-chattied with the hubby for a few minutes, and probably went to bed around 1 AM. Around 3 AM, I heard little shuffling footsteps, followed by "Mommy? I got bad dreams." Aww, baby, what's wrong? "Dere's spikes falling on my head, and fishies jumping out of da water to eat me." ....even at 3 AM I can recognize the Water World level of old school Super Mario Brother's 3. No more Nintendo for you. "I'm just gonna sleep wif you." Come on in. For approximately every 15 minutes after that, she shifted, rolled, starfished, ninja-ed away my pillow, snatched the covers, and in one unfortunate personal decision, suggested I move to her bed so she and Daddy had more room. I finally moved to the couch for my own sanity. Imagine my dismay when a half an hour later, I opened my eyes and was staring into two little white eyesballs an inch from mine. "Hey Mommy. Is you lonely??" It was almost a relief when we got up at 6:15.

Unfortunately, I was a complete zombie. When she announced she was hungry, I pointed wordlessly to the kitchen table and then got out a box of cereal. "Hey Mommy, how about panc...." - a single Mommy glare quelled that request before it could even come to full fruition. I poured her a bowl, sliced in some bananas, tripped over the dog, splashed in (and around) some milk, and then stumbled to the table. I set down the cereal bowl, said "Eat", and collapsed in my own chair. When I didn't hear the scraping of the spoon on a bowl, or the crunchcrunch of delicious Rice Crispies, I blearily looked up to see what the problem was. There, in my daughter's booster seat, properly belted in and smiling vacantly, cloth arms open in welcome, was a Cabbage Patch Kid doll. I paused, trying to get a grasp on the situation. Hallucinating? I hope not. I looked around, but The Child was nowhere to be seen. "Uhh...MacKenzie?" No answer. I poked the doll with the spoon, half-expecting it to yell "Ow!" or "Surprise!!!" Luckily, there was no answer.

Before I could really panic, MacKenzie wandered into the kitchen. "I had to go potty." Awesome. Thank you for making me question my sanity before 7 AM. Eat your cereal. I waited to make sure she was actually going to start eating, and put my head back down. Then a high, squeaky voice said "I sure am hungry." I lifted my head and met her angelic expression. "Mommy. I fink my baby is hungry." Path of least resistance. I got up, poured cereal into a ramekin, put one piece of banana and a tablespoon of milk in, found a baby spoon at the back of the drawer, and set it out in front of the doll. I almost dislocated my arm mentally patting myself on the back...surely this makes me eligible for some sort of parenting award. I had just settled back in with my eyes closed, when the high squeaky voice said "I wish someone would feed me some ceweal." You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. I didn't even look up. "MacKenzie my love, YOU are the mommy. When you were a baby, I fed you, because I was the mommy. Since this is your baby, it is your job to make sure she is happy and fed. I...am the baby's grandma."

Blessed, beautiful silence.

"I wish Grandma would feed me some ceweal. She is da best Grandma ever."

I opened my mouth, to yell, to scream, to plead for help, but all that came out were waves of helpless giggles. Soon MacKenzie joined in, as the dog ran around us barking, and the baby doll smiled on benevolently.

Just another Sunday morning. :)