This is a man who loves all things sweet.
Especially his ice cream. And his cake and his cookies and his candy and his honey. Ok, so he’s not really discriminate when it comes to sugar, but that’s not the point here.
The point is that Sunday the (creepy) ice cream truck rode through our neighborhood blaring it’s tell-tale Piper song for all the little mice to hear. Whenever we hear it, which in the summer is about every other day and always on the weekends, Somanna will plead with me ask if he can go get an ice cream bar. I usually object on the grounds that it’s a royal rip off and because we have our own stash that may or may not be consumed on a nightly basis. I can neither confirm nor deny that last bit. Truthfully, I think he really only “asks” me because he is looking to me for willpower.
Except for this past Sunday, when it was hotter than Hades. We had been working steadily around the house and my main man had tackled the particularly un-fun chore of vacuuming the stairs. So when I heard the ice cream truck, I yelled downstairs to him before he could even ask and said “Yes baby, you can go get some ice cream.”
To which I heard this response: clangedy clang clang clang, tink!. Stompedy,stomp, stomp, whooosshh, slam! rumble rumble , ka-bam, slam! Stomp, stomp stomp.
Homeboy, in the middle of doing dishes dropped everything, ran to the closet, threw on his flip flops, slid back to the kitchen junk drawer, grabbed some cash and headed out the front door to wait on the ice cream truck.
In the street.
With all the other kids holding their parents’ hands.
Let’s just say he was the tallest kid on the block.