I love ice cream. I find myself liking flavors I used to balk at - chocolate chip cookie dough, cookies and cream and when it has real vanilla beans, I'll even eat vanilla, even though I like to think of myself as a chocolate purist.
The first summer we lived in this house we were spoiled by an old suburban treat...the Ice Cream Truck. Our lady would drive around nearly every other night, Phillip and I would empty our coin jars and rush out to greet the truck playing its whimsical music. It was such a treat and reward after suffering through breastfeeding and the trials and tribulations of being new parents. Last summer was no different.
This year is exciting because we get to share the joy and excitement of "The Ice Cream Lady" with Sophia. But the few times I've heard the chimes of "The Saints Go Marching In" in the near distance the tune quickly faded as she traveled in the opposite direction of our house. Last weekend I ripped Sophie out of her bed post nap as if the house was on fire in eager anticipation of Ice Cream only to be avoided yet again and then the rain started. Tonight however, I was on a mission to find her.
I jumped in the car and headed towards the magical sound of familiar songs. Same truck, new lady. She didn't know to come down our street. She won't make that mistake again! So now we are "fat and happy" with Radical Rainbow Push Up Pop (Sophie), Chocolate Eclair (Mama) and Orange Cream (Papa) in our bellies. Our sticky fingers are clean, the fireflies are dancing, and the Ice Cream Lady knows where to go.