Sweet Treats and Sweet Dreams

It's widely known in most of my circles that my husband and I are, well, freaks for ice cream. Without fail, we eat it every night. We eat it in the City series Starbucks mugs that we have collected throughout our years and travels together. For those of you who aren't familiar with this mug series, they're huge. And I don't mean huge, as in they're all the rage, I mean girth-wise, they are huge. Huge.

It is an indulgence that I relish to the point that I can think of only two things that have kept me from diving into that sweet, creamy, yumminess on a nightly basis: first trimester sickness and the stomach flu. Ice cream overrides all else.

So every night, after the kiddies are tucked snuggly, buggly into bed, we let loose and party, on ice cream. Mark is the greatest ice cream scooper in the world. He packs it in, packs it down, and finds a way to stuff a little more in. The already, yes, huge mug is not only full to the brim, it's a mountainous, overflowing glob of goodness.

For a while it was sort of a secretive thing that we did. Ice cream isn't consumed by us during the day. Kids are always asleep when we bring it out. And if Heath ever noticed the ice cream when it was being purchased (often in copious amounts, depending on the sale of the week. We feel like we've hit the jackpot when the HT has a Buy Two, Get Two Free deal.), we would usually say, Oh, that's adult stuff. Mark would sometimes choose the It's yucky, you wouldn't like it, route. And that was a sufficient discussion for Heath. Until recently.

He's started taking note of our trail of ice cream shame. Empty cartons by Mark's bedside in the morning.

Daddy eat that? he immediately asks when he spies the telltale carton on the nightstand.

The Portland mug on my side. Dried chocolate residue lining the porcelain.

What's that? he asks, before climbing into the bed, clinking the spoon on the hollow, dirty mug.

We've started to get a little more industrious at night, and have been discarding our cartons and mugs in the kitchen sink as soon as we've finished our gluttonous dessert time. But Heath hasn't moved on. One of his first questions in the morning, shortly after, You got my milk?, he asks, Did you and Daddy have ice cream?

The answer is always yes.

I'll go to the sink and take a look. He pushes his stool across the kitchen floor to the sink and surveys the damage done with the curiosity of a CSI criminalist.

This looks like Bear Claw. You didn't eat Bear Claw. Daddy ate Bear Claw. You ate something white with spots. Maybe it had wheels (Oreos) in it.

If a carton or mug isn't in the sink, he continues his search. You already put your mug up? He opens the dishwasher and examines the mugs on the top rack.

Is there a carton in there? he accuses, motioning to the garbage can. Before I can answer, he opens the lid and pulls out the carcass. Cookie Doughs, he sighs, sadly dumping the dead soldier back into his tomb.

He's taken only mild interest in the actual eating of the ice cream. Every now and then he wants a little strawberry, but he has a few bites and quickly loses enthusiasm. He then passes it off to Stella who is more than happy to shove her entire head into the bowl, making sure to not miss a single drop.

But apparently, he has big, big plans for ice cream consumption in his future. Tonight when I tucked him into bed, he said, When I get older, I'm going to get in bed at night and eat Bear Claw ice cream with you and Daddy.

I'm not sure if I find that sweet, or if I am afraid he will be living here at 35, eating Bear Claw in the bed with us, unable to be a well-functioning member of society. For sanity's sake, I'll go with the sweet thought.