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The Ice Cream Man Cometh
Summer Comfort From a Musical Truck By Colleen Frye
What is it about ice cream on a stick that makes otherwise normal children and adults suddenly lose their marbles? I pondered this from the fetal position inside my bathtub, where I was fully clothed and desperately hunched over the portable phone. My two young children were on the other side of the locked door, weeping.
The cause of this insanity? The ice cream man.
In my hometown, the annual appearance of the ice cream man (or woman) signals the official arrival of summer. By midsummer, though, the parents have begun to view the daily ritual for what it really is: Evil salespeople stalking suburban neighborhoods in colorfully camouflaged vehicles equipped with speakers blaring tinny versions of "Pop Goes the Weasel." It's all a ploy to hawk garishly dyed, overpriced ice cream in the shape of popular TV cartoons to anxiously waiting and whining children. No amount of parental reasoning can sway the kids from that siren call: "But you can have a whole box full of [name the ice cream of your kid's choice here] for the price of one Super Spiderman dripless (ha!) red neon Popsicle."
That's when the craziness begins. I've seen neighborhood kids threaten to file claims of neglect with the local authorities because they were denied their inalienable rights to the pursuit of happiness in 40 flavors. I've seen my very pregnant neighbor push toddlers out of the way to get her daily fix of Nutty Buddies. I've seen a neighborhood mom chase after the truck with a broom after 27 consecutive days of interrupting her family dinner. My own children once abandoned their bubble bath to wait, wet and naked, in our driveway for their chance to buy a Screwball. I'm sure any passersby thought their mother was a screwball.
On this particular day, my two children were watching a video while I was participating in a very important conference call from my home office with my new CEO. Suddenly, they heard the telltale music. I hadn't heard it myself it's played at a special pitch that only young children can hear from a distance but I could tell from their outstretched hands that they were looking for ice cream money.
I was forced to resort to that special sign language developed by mothers to communicate with their children when discretion and desperation meet in one horrible moment. To the childless observer, this looks like a cross between a game of charades and a frantic air traffic controller.
My first move was the universal finger to the lips "shhhhh" sign. I should've known better the power of ice cream is greater than a rookie mom move.
Next, I used the more advanced "evil eye" that withering stare intended to send them slinking back to the TV to no avail.
Finally I resorted to the baseball umpire move, sharply pointing to each of them, "You, you," and then jerking my thumb toward the door: "You're out!"
With that, their hopes dashed, they both started to cry. Pressing my hand hard against the mouthpiece of my portable phone, I did what any resourceful working mom would do: I turned on my heels and ran into the next room. They followed me. I dashed into the next room. Still couldn't shake them. Finally into the kitchen, then the dining room. Back where I started. Soon we were doing laps through the house. I doubled back on them, hit the stairs, ran into the bathroom, locked the door and crawled into the tub. I closed the shower curtain for good measure.
By this time I had totally lost the thread of the discussion.
My children, noses pressed to the other side of the bathroom door, turned up the volume.
"Well, I can tell someone doesn't like my last comment," said my new CEO.
"Oh, um, they heard the ice cream truck. Those are the hazards of working at home, right?"
Silence. Even my kids had stopped crying, though I hardly noticed it as I mentally rifled through the drawers in my file cabinet where I had last seen my resume.
Finally, one of the saleswomen piped up, "Oh, I miss those days. There's nothing like a Creamsicle off the truck to make you feel good."
She was absolutely right. As the conversation picked up again, I gently placed the portable phone on the edge of the tub and quietly opened the door. Before my red-eyed and astonished children could say a word, I grabbed their hands, raced down the stairs and out the front door, and ran down the street in pursuit of Tweety Bird on a stick. And I wasn't carrying a broom.
