Ice Cream Sneakery

This is just to say, I set a dangerous precedent on my return from my recent Mother's Day trip to Brooklyn. In my joy at seeing Espen, I may have granted permission for a small cup of ice cream before breakfast.

In all the days following, my first experience of the day has involved Espen angling for a reprise of Breakfast Ice Cream.

Skip to Saturday morning. I hear Espen vaguely rustling around in bed. He does not make a beeline for me, which is the norm in days following a Return of Mom. It's early, so I am grateful for a little more time to be horizontal.

Footsteps pad around in the hall and kitchen. It's quiet enough for me to rest but not so silent I am forced to investigate out of Pure Self Preservation.

I finally get up to visit the loo and ask Tobias what time it is. Espen hears this and comes racing down the hall. I'm back in bed before he reaches the door, but that is no deterrent.

The child approaches my bedside. Gets real cozy and close like.

"Mama. Have some."

A spoon appears near my face.

"What is that, Espy?"

He smiles like a shark.

"Ice cream!"

"What?"

"Have some ice cream, Mama!"

"Oh, boo. Oh."

Because I notice he has a 5 o'clock shadow that is slowly sliding down his face. His arms. His wee little legs.

He raises his other hand. Which is holding a half gallon of chocolate ice cream. Also, his ice cream cup and spoon. There is a pool of ice cream forming around the perimeter of the box, which tells me he has been in his cups for some time.

A sticky little hand extends over the bed, leaving a goopy trail of ice cream splotches that mirror his gooey body.

As I dodge to avoid the cream glue, I recall his predilection for leaving the freezer door open after his raids.

"Did you leave the freezer door open?"

"Yes!"

Sigh. I should be unsuprised by this, but it still stings a little. "Alright."

I'll say this, Espen is very consistent at telling the truth. Even if it involves 60lbs of mostly de-thawed beef.