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I Scream for Ice Cream

I’m sitting on the couch in a sweatshirt and sweatpants shivering. “It’s so cold in here,” I complain to my husband. “Can you turn off the air?”

Husband, sporting shorts and a tee shirt, plops himself down on the couch. “It’s summer.”

“Not in here it’s not.” I pout.

“If you’re so cold, maybe you shouldn’t be eating ice cream.”

Really? Logic? Is that what you’re going with?

I almost stop mid spoon to roll my eyes. Almost. Any retort must wait until the Edy’s slow-churned rocky road with chocolate sprinkles melts down my throat. Ohh. That’s good.

He knows that for me, ice cream isn’t just a nightly treat. My attachment – attachment sounds so much saner than addiction or obsession – goes much deeper than that.

When I’m sad or stressed, ice cream comforts me. When it’s time to celebrate, it’s a party in my bowl, with happy sprinkles, mini marshmallows and chocolate chips. Every day I find it emotionally soothing, a reward, a gift, but I’m also physically drawn to it.

I want it. I crave it. I must have it. I swap meals for it. I dream about it. I plan my day around it. I bribe my kids to go with me to score a pint. Watching vanilla and chocolate soft serve slowly swirl into a cone leaves me dreamy and relaxed. I carry cones in the side compartment of my car, and my own “mix” of toppings in my bag. I may or may not have picked a lost scoop up off the floor and eaten it. You have no proof.

What? Doesn't everyone carry their own container of sprinkles?

What? Doesn’t everyone carry their own container of sprinkles?

I think it’s genetic. My brother is a great consumer of ice cream. When handed a bowl of titanic proportions, he can be seen raising a mischievous brow and saying with a sarcastic lilt, “This all you got?” My father, basically lives on ice cream and cheesecake, and just might be the most unhealthy person still living.  My cousin, and soul sister, once told me that unless she has to sop up fallen ice cream and squeeze it into her mouth via sponge, she will eat it. And the late great, grand dame of the family, never concluded a meal without dramatically licking her lips before a bowl of chocolate ice cream.

Was there really any hope for me?

So when my husband rises from the couch to go to the kitchen for his own snack, I hand him my empty cup. “Could you get me a refill?” I ask. “And hand me that blanket.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls a sprinkle out of my hair.

Okay, I admit it. I have a little problem.

I’m cold. I’d like to lose five pounds. I’ve probably already had enough… For an elephant. But I can’t help myself. I love it.

Hello, I am Ice Scream Mama. And I am an Ice cream-aholic.

Please don’t send help.




Oh for the love of ice cream, someone call AAA!

We had 25 minutes to meet my husband and oldest son at his baseball game, which was only seven minutes away, when I passed my favorite yogurt store and made an impromptu decision – fantasized about for the entire day – to stop and get myself a cup.

“Nooooooo!” my two younger boys groaned from the backseat. “No stopping!”

I shot them my mean mom stare. “I don’t want to hear that. I do everything for you guys. You can eat ice cream for me. Sheesh.”

They just rolled their eyes, and shook their heads at my pathetic desperation. Who were these judgmental ice cream haters?

“It’ll just be a quick pit-stop.” I say, overly cheerful. The nearness to my fix makes me a little wild-eyed and fidgety.

We park in the closest spot, and within minutes, I am ordering myself a peanut butter and cappuccino covered in chocolate crunchies. Neither my five or eight year-old want anything. Really?

We’re back in the car lickety-split. “See, I told you guys. Perfect timing!”

I put the car in gear and go… straight over something. Oops. What was that? A curb? A small divider? Eh. Whatever. I’ll just keep going.

I hit the gas. The front of the car dips down over the curb? Bump? Divider? We stop. I try to go forward, but there is an ominous scratching sound. Uh oh.

“What’s that noise, mommy?” My eight year-old asks.

“Uh, nothing.” I hit the gas again. The screeching noise returns and the car won’t budge. I put it in reverse. Won’t budge. This could be bad.

“Are we stuck?” the backseat interrogator asks.

Out the window, people walking past stare at us with their mouths hanging open in horrified amazement, or possibly amusement.  A car goes by and the driver stares directly at me. I can read the slow motion words on his lips. “Oh Shiiiiit.”

There was nothing left to do, but get out and see the damage.

car stuck close up

Oh shit.

By now, a crowd had gathered to gawk and giggle at the dumb mom who can’t drive, and her amazing unmovable vehicle. Can’t go forward. Can’t go backward. Hear it wail in agony. Or, that might just be me.

I needed to call AAA, but first I needed to call…. my husband. Da Da Dummmm!

I was afraid, first because the car had recently been fixed from the bump in the night a few months back. Second, because last week, I did something similar over a rock.

car accident

Impressive, right?

My son’s game was minutes from starting.

“Hey, where are you?” My husband answers, all business.

“I had a little accident.”

From the backseat peanut gallery, “Mommy ran over a parking lot!”

“I did not run over a parking lot!” I huff.

Long exhale from my husband. “Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone is fine. Not sure about the car, though.”

“Okay, just call AAA. Don’t worry.” Don’t worry? He must have been surrounded by parents and children. Hope they all come home with him.

I look over to my yogurt; the crunchies perfectly melted into the sweet creamy goodness. If I wouldn’t have stopped, we would be at my son’s game right now, and my sons wouldn’t be chanting from the backseat, “Mommy can’t drive! Mommy can’t drive!”

I leisurely reached for the cup. Wasn’t like we were going anywhere.

car stuck tow truck

My hero!

car stuck tow ramp