When the kids go to bed at night, I’ve been known to eat a bowl of ice cream. It’s how I unwind. Which is probably also why I’ve yet to lose most of the “baby weight” 3 years later. But I made it through another day with most of my hair, I think I deserve it.
On the really trying days, I even top my Double Fudge Brownie chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup. I have no excuse for this, really, but I still blame the kids.
As was the case the other night, when I put a few scoops in a bowl and began to drizzle with a ribbon of chocolate. Only it was the last of the bottle. As the air bubbles made an alarming sound like flatulence, Jedi perked up from the dark of his room.
“Mommy?”, he yelled for me. “What was that?”
Crap, I thought. What do I tell him? If I say what it really was, then he’s going to want some. But I don’t want him to have any. I don’t want to share. This is mine, darn it. I earned it. Why isn’t he asleep, anyway? Who cares, what do I say? He’s going to see me walk past with a bowl, he’ll know something’s in it. Think, woman, think.
“It was an empty bottle”, I began.
“Of what?”, he continued to quiz.
But I’m surprisingly quick on my feet when ice cream is concerned. “Salad dressing”, I replied.
“Ew”, he remarked before turning back over to sleep. And as all the kids lay oblivious in their beds, I ate my treat in peace. Because nothing makes a bad day better like a good bowl of salad.