Small Town, USA has added a new vehicle to her streets, and the sound that vehicle makes has everyone running to catch it.
It’s an ice cream truck.
Except, it’s not really an ice cream truck, because it’s a shaved ice truck, which is not at all the same. I’m not a fan of the shaved ice with sugary syrup poured over the top, so resisting the sing-song bells and music isn’t going to be a problem for me.
(Unless the shaved ice truck has a secret compartment for salt and limes.)
Last night, we heard the truck drive into our subdivision, while we were outside, digging in the backyard. Perhaps I should clarify that a bit. Hubs and I were sitting on the deck, talking about how nice it would be to join the civilized world and actually FINISH our backyard landscaping, while Thing 2 was digging in the enormous mound of dirt we own.
Our four-year-old was also using a stick as a machete to cut through the waist-high weeds.
We like to give him the full Indiana Jones experience when he’s playing outside. It’s a little parenting blessing we’re capable of pulling off.
Now, Thing 2 cannot hear us, from four feet away, say to him in our LOUD parenting voices, “DON’T BEAT THAT GIANT STICK ON THE SIDE OF THE HOUSE,” but he can hear the soft jingle of this new truck in town, from four miles away. His ears went back, like a search and rescue dog picking up a distant sound, while he tilted his head to one side… listening… listening… LISTENING.
And then he hollered out, “I hear something! It’s funny music!”
That’s when Hubs yelled, “Oh, my gosh! IT’S THE NEW ICE CREAM TRUCK!!!” It’s because Hubs received zero-point-zero grams of carbs on his dinner plate last night, in Mama’s effort to SWING THIS EATING TRAIN AROUND TO THE HEALTHY END, and his stomach still had plenty of room in it. It’s where the baked potato and garlic bread would’ve gone, had Mama not beat that carb horse deader than the Godfather would’ve done it this past week.
I’m not sure who ran to the house quicker last night… Thing 2, or his still-hungry dad. They were on a mission to find themselves some money.
“Quick! Search the sofa cushions! Break the piggy bank on your dresser! Look on the shelf by Mama’s dryer! Find us some quarters, Son! It’s the ice cream truck!”
By the time I had produced real paper money for the two of them, who had visions of sprinkles and chocolate-coating dancing in their eyes, the ice cream truck was long gone. We didn’t let that stop us, though. We simply loaded ourselves up into the Suburban, and drove that thing like we were Bo and Luke Duke, following the distant strains of music.
… and THAT is when we realized that it doesn’t actually sell ice cream, because it is a truck dedicated to the lone ingredient of SHAVED ICE IN A CUP.
It may have been the biggest letdown of 2016. I’m fairly certain that our faces looked exactly like this:
On the side of the truck, you can find eighty-six levers, so that you can dispense your own flavors. Thing 2 thought he had hit the biggest vein of an active gold mine ever discovered on American soil, while his parents were still trying to deal with the fact that there would be no ice cream sandwiches to fulfill their carb cravings.
I can officially go on record to say that Thing 2 is a convert to the dark side of shaved ice covered in goo.
He IS a fan, people.
I think we may be in trouble with this one.
In the end, he chose blue raspberry for his ice. (His lips were already stained like a rainbow, from the flavor shots he was slamming back at lightning-strike speeds.) I like to pretend that there were no artificial colors in the blue raspberry… but BLUE, people.
We said goodbye to the shaved ice folks, who apparently DO NOT have a secret compartment for salt and limes for the taller kids, and we walked back to our Suburban.
And exactly eight seconds later — just enough time to declare someone a bull riding champion in the world of rodeo — Thing 2 dropped his entire cup of ice and fake blue syrup into the backseat. Every last drop of that blue goodness oozed across the leather seat and dripped to the floor. We had the perfect bait for attracting every biting ant this side of the Mississippi River.
… is why Hubs then explained to Thing 2 that when he hears the music playing loudly out of the shaved ice truck, it means that they are PLUM DADGUM ALL OUT OF shaved ice for the day, so they won’t have any for us to buy.
You’re welcome for that little bit of parenting brilliance, y’all. Feel free to use it on your own children.