My family has a well-documented ice cream problem. If we feel too happy, someone will suggest ice cream, and if we feel too unhappy, someone will suggest ice cream. As the matriarch of the household, I have to keep everybody at about a seven on the happiness scale so that we will not get ice cream. The other day, though, the kids were too cute, and I magically had dinner on the table when my husband got home, and somehow when he entered the door, I did not bare my teeth at him as an expression of my Stay-At-Home-Mom Rage, which is totally a thing, and we just ended up way too happy. DANGGIT. We went to get ice cream.
Things were going as you’d expect: Adelaide wants chocolate, will be furious if anyone else gets chocolate because she doesn’t understand that there is more than one cup of chocolate ice cream in the universe at any given moment, and Greer wants “blue,” a vague request that is not always possible to obtain, but conveniently, Greer is unclear on the color blue and generally good-natured, so chocolate or vanilla will do in a pinch. We pull up to the drive thru of our favorite place to get ice cream, and it’s there that things get squirrelly.
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