Week 94: Ice Cream Truck

End of June means ice cream cone time. I can see this truck is a grill truck, but the packaging this Hot Wheels came in said Ice Cream Truck, and that ominous lurker inside the truck could just as easily be serving a Creamsicle as a burger. On closer inspection, he could just as easily be serving a big bowl  ...of TERROR!! TERROR WITH SPRINKLES!!!! Or cheese and onions.

The flames in front of his shadowy figure do lend a slight creep factor.

Whatever the case, we're going to assume he's serving frozen novelties.

My wife suggested we go out for ice cream today, and even though my wife's birthday is a few days away, she subtly leveraged that proximity to convince me to go out, so we packed up two of the three kids (Racer Z one was at his grandparents) and hit the road.

Don't misunderstand: I love ice cream. I really do. My reticence to go out was based on a much more ridiculous trepidation: watching little kids, at least my little kids, eat ice cream cones stresses me out.

Before you think I'm some kind of monster like the shadow man behind the flames above, let me explain. I completely recognize the cute factor and my heart swoons in an "oh-my-goodness-how-sweet" sappiness as much as the next guy as I watch children and their serious concentration as they eat a cone. I am thrilled at how much happiness a simple cone brings to them. I even find it cute how the little ones manage to cover their faces completely in ice cream. I'm no monster.

Yes, what causes me stress nonetheless is partly the drippy, sticky mess, but, much more significantly, it is the ever-present threat of the Dropped Cone. Neither a balloon lost at a fair nor a toy cracking underfoot can create the heart-rending sorrow and subsequent wailings of a child who has dropped the cone.

I frankly don't need that kind of pressure.

Of course I lobbied for G to order ice cream in a cup, affecting my voice in the most salemen-y of tones as I prepared myself to use every objection as an opportunity to sell, but before I even began I was discounted by everyone, including my wife. I'm fairly certain I was discounted by the guy standing behind me.

Baby G was anticipating a cone. Nobody knew of my secret fears. Cone it was.

Baby G is three years old and a particularly neat eater, and someone without cone drop phobia might see this as reason to worry less, but to me, it's the opposite. G's a neat eater. That means he rejects help.  That means he's confident, and some, like myself, might say cocky. He's going it alone, regardless of the dangers, dangers the little tyke can barely comprehend. No Drop, Do.

We get our cones and sit on a bench on the side of the ice cream parlor, and after quickly realizing my hovering by his cone was only more likely to cause G to pull away than help, I backed off. Of course G had chosen to sit a good five feet down from my wife, and as she told him to scoot closer, my heart skipped a beat. Everyone knows the takeoff and landing on a seat is the most dangerous time in cone eating.

G began doing that butt-wiggle scoot that only moves a kid a few millimeters at a time, and it was apparent that would take about a half hour for him to actually move down the bench, by which time the ice cream would be melted. I had to tell him to stand and walk down. I don't think he heard the fear in my voice, but it was there. Oh, it was there.

He did fine, though, and began eating the cone. This is important to understand, however: we were at a home-made style frozen custard stand, meaning the custard is scooped into the cones. Why is this important? It's obvious. These cones lack the symmetry and balance of a machine spun cone. These are not starter cones, people. These are drippy, tricky dairy challenges and require much more spinning and skill. I'm surprised they even let kids in the place at all.

Man did he do well, though, and really didn't even drip that much -- I think I got as much custard on my shirt as he did on my shirt. We were down to the final stretch, the last inch and a quarter of circular cone bottom, and then out of the stinking blue it happened. The cone dropped, amazingly landing flat on its bottom on the bench, and without missing a beat G scooped it up and resumed eating.

For a moment I considered throwing myself on top of the cone to save him, but I was sure that would have gotten me thrown out, so instead I looked at my wife and said, "We need to make sure we get that before he gets to the bottom." I could not read her expression.

He is three and we had ordered a small cone, not the baby size we usually get, so I kind of thought he would not be able eat it all. I was counting on it. Still, I moved in close, just in case. I had actually stood up off the bench at this time and was standing directly in front of him.

Did he know my plans? I'll never know, but like a panther eating chocolate soft-serve homemade custard in a cone, G shoved the entire thing in his mouth, not his style. I saw the bottom of the circle disappear as his lips closed about it, only to come back out, any germs from the bench having already stepped off the cone into his mouth like giggly pre-teens off a roller coaster. He took a bite, and the circle became a half moon.

I had failed.

Did he understand my intentions? I doubt it, but who knows. I guess it was like a hardcore marathon runner who pees herself or pukes on his muscle T-shirt and keeps going -- nothing is going to stop them from crossing that finish line.

It was done. I looked at him, and grudgingly thought to myself, "Good game, sir. Well played." We went to the restroom to wash our hands.



The above Ice Cream Truck is part of the Wheels HW City Works 2011 collection. Phil has not yet returned as my photographer, so this one was shot by me -- the background, by the way, is a napkin and not an albino cantaloupe. On an unrelated note, don't you think the crossed spatulas in front of the burger on the truck look like the head of an Imperial Storm Trooper from Star Wars? Yeah, me too.