We went out for ice cream this week. Several times. It's that time of the year. It's light out late. It doesn't cool down until after 6:30. Stella's alert and dirty and we're burning daylight before we can give her a bath and put her in her comfy little bed where she nestles down for the night and recharges for the next long, hot day.
There is not a good local ice cream place near our house. I could sit here and mentally map out the local environs and...nothing for miles. No Baskin Robbins, no mom and pops that sell ice cream, no hispanic helado store--to me this is a disappointment. It seems that getting ice cream shouldn't be a production. One shouldn't have to drive for miles to find a fun little place that sells ice cream. But we do.
We go to Mary Coyle's. This is a local place that's been around for a while. It's been a frequent place since we've been married, too. It's not too far, but far enough. They make their own ice cream and employ the slightly privileged teenagers that live in downtown Phoenix. There have been a number of these servers that stick out to us and whenever we pull up to park we wonder aloud, "I wonder what happened to Sweaty Motivated Boy? Or Hair Twirlling Girl who let people's ice cream melt? Hmmm?" It's a fun little game of familiarity.
Anyway. We went to Mary Coyle's this week. We order some ice cream fully aware of the requirement to share with Stella because she is unable to manage or consume her own bowl. Well, all was well at MC's. We were having a fun time. There were pink straws to play with! And she was sitting by her dad--her new fave.
And then they brought the ice cream.
This is usually this highlight. but not when you're dealing with the end-of-the-day emotional capabilities of a small child. She got her own spoon and she was given the opportunity to use it at will. But she did not choose wisely.
For added emphasis: