Wednesday, June 19, 2013

An Open Letter to My Arch Nemesis, The Ice Cream Truck

Dear Mr. Ice Cream Truck,

Oh my God, I hate you so hard right now. 

I thought I would write this to explain why I glare at you with my eyes (and heart) full of furious and righteous anger. You notice me scowling at you, but you don't seem to care. Which only deepens my fury.

Yesterday, you caused my 4 year old to have a 30 minute meltdown. In front of a large group of people because of course. I had to smile and nod and murmur phrases like "We don't reward this kind of behavior" and "No thank you, make another choice" approximately 400,000 times, while wrestling my beloved offspring as she writhed around on the pavement, howling like Mariah Carey with a bladder infection.

You may think the whole point of what you do is to make children happy, BUT YOU JUST MAKE THEM SAD. It's exactly like balloons: you expect it's going to be all happy happy fun time, but kids always end up crying. 

I can't win with you, man. I either buy them an overpriced ice cream and it melts/falls apart or I don't buy them one and there is insta-meltdown. And seriously, you are always there, every single day, sometimes twice, and I can’t buy your stupid Dora head popsicles with choking hazard eyeballs every time. I just can’t. No one can. So basically when you show up, blaring "It's a Small World" like some sort of distortion-infused nightmare theme track, my kids' Pavlovian response is to cry. And so is mine.

You are not the provider of frozen dairy treats, you are the bringer of despair. 

Quick sidenote - speaking of your vehicle's noise pollution musical choices, my friend saw you last week and your truck was playing "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer". What in the hell is that all about? That makes no sense. Are you playing mind games now? Is that where this is going?

Let's be up front about what happens every time I cave and buy ice cream from you. What have I really purchased? I've bought my children 30 seconds of ill-fated happiness and myself a summer of whining and petulance. Because I've stupidly agreed to the unwritten but still kid-legal contract. Namely that the ice cream truck is now a possibility that must be confirmed, and if denied, objected to in strenuous terms. Because "the contract" has been violated. 

Don't believe me? Remember that time you wanted to be nice and your kids had to have a bunch of shots, so after their doctor's visit you bought them Happy Meals? How many weeks was it before you could even drive by McDonalds without hearing their little voices, pleading for more drive-thru?

Right. Moving on. I have some questions.

Why do you always show up right before dinner? WHY?

And seriously, why does your truck look like you're hiding bodies in the freezer? Please use a less terrifying vehicle. 

Why do you allow kids to chase you down the street, waving money at you in their little hands and screaming at you to stop? Then you don't stop. You smile at them over your shoulder as you pull out of the neighborhood, while they dissolve into forlorn puddles of sadness. Does their sadness bring you joy? 

Why must every product you sell contain some sort of food coloring or additive that permanently stains clothes no matter how hard I try to get them out? Even vanilla ice cream. How is that even possible?

So those are all the reasons I glare at you. There may be more but I'm tired. You, sir, are the harbinger of summer, but the not good parts. Not the sleeping in and the slowing down and the time together. Just the crap parts like mosquito bites and the "MOOOOM, I'm boooored" before breakfast is even over and sun block in your eyes and the one lost flip flop and no one going to sleep because the sun is out until 9:30 at night. 

And you, my nemesis.

Lydia B. Coupon
Rants from Mommyland

(c)Herding Turtles 2009 - 2013

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