Picture it: Small town Indiana. Limited dining options. A two-year-old, a four-year-old, our good friends (the kids’ grandparents), the Hubs, and me.
Hangry on multiple levels is a real possibility if things don’t progress in an orderly fashion.
The four-year-old happens to be Little Miss CK (as in the real-life four-year-old, not Little Miss Muse, the purple-winged imp). When we loaded into the van, I knew we’d be in for another memory-making moment. Or two. (One for this week, one for next week. We must pace ourselves in these days of exhaustion.)
The first hiccup came when loading into the van at the house and explaining to CK that I couldn’t sit next to her because Baby Sister’s car seat needs to stay where it is since it requires an engineering degree to install, and though there is an engineer among us, no one wants to fool with that task so close to dinnertime.
The second hiccup is that Baby Sister doesn’t care for my vibe, even though I’ve tried everything but stand on my head to impress that kid. And I can’t do a headstand, so we’re out of luck. I can’t get too close to her without receiving the evil eye, and if I cross the boundary that only she can see, screaming and clinging to Grandma ensues. Sitting behind Baby Sister on this day was pushing that boundary.
Six minutes later: "We're not at the right place. They don't have *brand name* ice cream,” Miss CK is whiny. Hangry is imminent.
Grandpa parks around the corner from the restaurant, requiring a tiny walk from the van to the front door. Thus, Miss CK was a bit disoriented.
I know the feeling. I’m almost always disoriented, coming out of disorientation, or about to be disoriented.
We reassured CK this was the place.
Now, without spoiling the ending, you should know this: I thought CK was butchering the pronunciation of this brand name. I offered alternative names and was shot down each time with that flip of her braids. The other adults shrugged shoulders, and Baby Sister glared, so they were no help. Turns out, CK absolutely knew what she was talking about and didn’t butcher the pronunciation at all.
But I also don’t want to get sued by this ice cream company, so I’ll leave out the brand name.
We’re halfway to the door. “This place has the *brand name* ice cream?”
“This is the place,” Grandpa reassures her.
CK grabs my hand and we nearly skip to the hostess station, where a kind lady leads us to our table.
We pass the bar area and I feel CK’s posture straighten and her countenance lifts. “Yup. They have *brand name* ice cream here.”
I let go the fact that noticing the bar sparks the fact that this is, indeed, the right place for a certain kind of ice cream…
This place has a smorgasbord with menu options and several differing dining rooms. The one we’re seated in has a giant water mill, turning up water from a small pool. Nice vibe.
Our butts aren’t even in the seats before CK expresses the agony of boredom. The energy oozes from this child and must be directed somewhere. And, as in our previous adventure, where we flee monsters and hunt for unicorns, I allow her to take the lead, but we have to stay at the table.
The other adults fall away from my view. Baby Sister, too, as she’s clinging to Grandma. CK and I plaster the paper placemats with glitter gel pen ink. We draw fairies and a unicorn, and we have many words about the upcoming ice cream. Hopes and dreams level.
Bargaining ensues. How much real food must she eat before we head to the dessert buffet for her scoop of *brand name* ice cream?
We take sad-face selfies to document the emotions in a world without ice cream before our “real” food comes.
"I'm bored." She says again when the plates arrive. She’s scarfed her macaroni and cheese while the rest of us have barely picked up our forks.
On this, I’ll not allow her to lead. Hangry was hanging around the periphery and edging in. "I'm eating. You’ll have to be patient."
She asks to see the pictures on my phone. No problem with that if it allows me to fork in another mouthful of green beans.
That is, until her little fingers hold the device just right, and she nearly sends a password screenshot, a selfie gone wrong, and two wayward cat pics to five people in my contact list.
Without looking up from his plate, Grandpa says, "She can do things."
I grab the phone and undo her sequence of “What in the world did you do, CK?”
“She doesn't know what she's doing, but she gets it done.” Grandpa again. The engineer.
This is one of the reasons CK and I get along so well. I don't know what I’m doing, either, but somehow, stuff gets done. My efforts often involve a password reset, a random cat, and a selfie-gone-wrong.
Having consumed enough of the boring “real food,” I take CK to the dessert bar, where an older lady hand-dips ice cream from behind the sneeze guard.
I get sherbet for Baby Sister (who clung to Grandma the entire meal, likely to steer clear of me, landing Grandma’s steak and potato in a Styrofoam box, untouched).
The lady dips it into a tiny cup.
CK jumps up and down, and I still don't know what flavor she's trying to articulate, so I lift her up. She points to the most colorful offering in the frozen case. And the name tag says *brand name*.
By golley, she did know what she was talking about.
Given her elevated energy state, I order a tiny cup for her, too.
Her eyes get big as the lady dips out the colorful concoction.
It's my turn.
“I would like..." And I have a brain freeze for a split moment because I accidentally channel my inner elderly one and say, “butter pecan.” I’ve never ordered butter pecan on purpose in my whole life—it was the available flavor in Grandma’s fridge, but never have I ever chosen it.
This is… disorienting.
But Miss CK? She flips. Her. Gourd. And her braids. "Nooo! Make our ice cream match.”
The lady raises an eyebrow, and I shrug my shoulders. "Well, I suppose I’ll have matching ice cream."
"You sure about that?" The woman tilts her head. I look down through the sneeze guard at the neon ice cream.
I look back at her.
"YOLO. But make it tiny." I was going to go for the adult-sized portion of the butter pecan, but this living-only-once thing requires a smaller dose.
The lady shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head, and fills a tiny cup. "Have fun with that." By the look on her face, I’m surprised she doesn’t tack on, “It’s your funeral.”
We skip back to the table. Well, Miss CK skips. I try to keep up, one hand holding tight to CK’s (lest she veers off into the bar) and the other balancing sherbet and a dessert that looks like an explosion at the Crayola factory.
I present Baby Sister with her orange delight. This did not win me brownie points. Or a smile. The vibe continues. (Babies and chickens. I just don’t do well with them these days.)
Before CK and I dig in, we must document the emotions in a world where we have matching ice creams with a selfie.
This is fun.
CK is super stoked for me to try her favorite flavor in the whole wide world.
I'm trepidatious. This living-only-once thing is a bit unsettling.
I can smell the food dye radiating from my cup. It might be eating through the Styrofoam, and it’s considering hopping across the table and tackling the Styrofoam protecting Grandma’s uneaten steak.
I stick my spoon in and get a good swipe of all the colors.
Miss CK, sitting on my lap and swinging her legs so that her heels crash into my shins in a painful rhythm, digs into hers. Her eyes go wide. “This is soooo gooood,” and she leans her whole body against mine, egging me on with her expression to taste it already.
I put the first spoonful in my mouth, and... nothing.
No sweet.
No tart.
No flavor at all.
Just cold, creamy… food coloring.
I may have psyched myself out.
I try again with the same results.
The adults at the table have a good chuckle at my facial expressions, which I can't control when my taste buds revolt.
"This is like eating Play-Doh," I declare.
Without missing a beat, CK blurts between bites, "But it's not that salty."
We all pause and stare at her, letting it sink in that she completely tracked with my comparison. And that she's eaten enough Play-Doh to be familiar with the salt content.
I reluctantly try to finish this dessert. I can’t even. I can’t stop picturing the ice cream lady taking her break with her adult-sized portion of butter pecan and nodding her head up and down in quiet delight, glad she wasn't foolish enough to attempt a living-only-once activity. She’s perfectly happy with the tried-and-true familiar.
While I'm out here on Planet Play-Doh.
YOLO-ing. Without the salt (which may have made it better).
I pause the blog writing here to google “YOLO,” curious about the capping. Evidently, this term has been deemed “outdated” and makes the speaker sound “old” (according to a survey of a couple thousand Brits).
Well then. Chuck it in with the butter pecan wishes and call me old.
But the outdated terminology doesn’t change the feel of the thing: We all get one shot at our one and only life.
So, skip into your next dining venue and color all over the placemats.
Demand to know when dessert is coming, and when it’s late, send five random contacts photos of your cat. Or live on the edge and send them screenshots of your passwords.
Order matching ice creams and let the four-year-old finish yours when you just can’t gag any more down. Or choose butter pecan if that’s what appeases your ancestors.
This living-only-once thing is a bit unsettling.
We may as well be like Miss CK.
We can do things. We may not know what we’re doing, but we can get things done.
With or without the salt.
