Experiments in marriage, parenthood and other adult dysfunctions.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Doing the Thing
I remember it like it was yesterday: picture it, Sicily, 1922…oh, wait, wrong story. Old age, I tell ya.
Let’s try that again: A few weeks ago, sunny Marietta, GA – all 3 kids and I were standing in line at the ice cream shop. No small feat since 2 of my 3 are walking allergy-magnets, which usually cuts down on edible alternatives on the go. But I was feeling (uncharacteristically) generous for a change, so I’d called around, found one of the more trendy gluten-free, dairy-free, taste-optional locales nearby and we set out on our frozen-themed adventure.
I’d already threatened my kids with military style punishments if they acted out spoken to them in depth about using their manners before we entered the restaurant. So it happened that I found myself with three (temporarily) well-behaved children on an outing. While I waited to place the order, I watched from the corner of my eye as my 4-year-old approached another boy who was gleefully hopping from foot to foot in front of the window.
Roman, my only boy, has a knack for seeking out other high-energy humans. I figured as long as I was wearing my Nice Mommy cloak for the day, why not let him make more friends. The two chatted, their volume rising quickly to a few decibels lower than a sonic boom. It was mildly distracting, but this was ice cream day – balls to the wall, I say!