We were just clearing the dinner table when we heard the tinkling melody that signals the approach of the ice cream truck. My children begged and even though we've been trying to eat healthy, and even though a couple years ago the ice cream man served us rancid chocolate, I barely hesitated. The ice cream truck is a part of summer, a part of childhood. The frozen yogurt and homemade popsicles in our freezer are pale substitutions.
My children donned their shoes faster than they ever had in the history of their lives, I grabbed my purse and we headed out the door. My wallet had cash in it, unlike every other day, proving that this was fate, destiny. We were meant to have ice cream today! Unfortunately, the ice cream truck was already driving down the street.
My son booted it down the street until he was a fleck in the distance. Still he couldn't outrun a moving vehicle (surprisingly). When I called him back, he promptly sat down in the grass and burst into tears. When my daughter and I caught up, we gave him hugs and I lamely offered the aforementioned frozen yogurt.
Just then we heard the truck again. It was around the block, on a street parallel to our own. We were only a few paces away from an alleyway connecting the two streets. William and I wanted to run, but Jadzia was being slow. At some point during this adventure she peed her pants, which slowed her down while decreasing my desire to carry her.
The walk through the alley was agonizingly slow and that repetitive melody taunted us. Finally, we reached the next street and saw the ice cream truck parked just around a bend. I told William to run ahead and make him wait. This time the truck stayed put.
I wasn't going to order myself a cone when the ice cream truck was parked in front of my house, but at this point I felt I had earned it. All three of us enjoyed a small soft serve. William's rainbow sprinkled, mine chocolate sprinkled, Jadzia's cherry dipped. We took our time walking home, savoring the sweet taste of success.