So one of my favorite parenting blogs discussed a formerly favorite hobby of mine: Eating your child's ice cream cone to "help" him or her finish it before it melts. Cone so big, child so small, parent must intervene.
However, Nadav has recently thwarted my efforts. Not with the bloodcurdling scream he emits should I venture close to his beloved ahh-tik (i.e. artik, i.e. ice cream). I mean, I can still sneak in a few stealth round-the-cone licks while he's distracted by some bird. ("Tootie shamah!" by which he really means "tuki shamah" which sort of means "Bird! There!" except "tuki" is really a toucan and we don't see many of those nibbling cone droppings outside the ice cream shop, but that's the only word for bird he seems to know. Sheesh, translating Nadav-speak is hard work.)
No, he has stopped me in my ice-cream-thieving tracks by using the ultimate anti-parent weapon: bubble gum ice cream.
Tastes like an unholy mixture of penicillin, sugar and concentrate of nastystuff. Oh, and the color. Surely neither God nor man ever intended us to eat something that resembles Barbie's convertible. And Nadav insists we top the whole frozen delight with rainbow sprinkles. Of course. Gotta make sure you get your daily serving of red dye #5.
So I sit there, watching the ice cream cone sadly drip onto his hands, shirt, shorts, shoes. Drip, drip, drip, "TOOTIE!!! SHAMAH!!!" drip, drip, smear. And there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.
(I could just ... get my own cone? I need to check my Parenting Manual to make sure that's allowed, though.)
The T-Shirt Paradox
1 week ago