Benedict Arnold Fat Baby

So I decided to get up at 6:30 AM to make chocolate ice cream instead of going for a run because I’m clearly not the adultiest of adults.  I don’t adult willingly.  Adulting gives me tantrums.  I cry until snot bubbles form and I can’t talk without my breath hitching making every word take a minimum of 15 minutes to come out and I cling to the leg of the nearest grown up (usually Magilla) like a teenage girl with Daddy Issues during her first break up.  I hate adulting but supposedly I’m good at it and people come to me for my viewpoint on things.  Oh the irony.  

Back to ice cream…

Last night I made the custard with Mei Mei and Fat Baby/Wee Baby Child/Benedict Arnold.   That child will rat me out in approximately less than 4.2 seconds.  So the original plan was to churn the custard into ice cream tonight however I went into a coma last night and my mind decided that waking up at 5:30 would be super fun.  My body decided to tell my mind to go screw itself and sleep until 6:30 at which point I woke and stretched and smiled at the fact that I had bed hogged the night through (Magilla is in another city).  I pondered what I should do.  Should I try out my new fig soap?   Should I finish my painting project?  Should I go for a run?  Should I check out the schedule for morning yoga at my local studio?  Don’t be ridiculous.  So out came the ice cream maker and the decision to give my husband dessert since he’d been on a business trip.  I can be nice.  It happens! 

It took 26 minutes to churn the custard into ice cream. I whipped out my handy ice cream container with the pretty green lid that never quite fits all of the ice cream so I’m left with a spoonful.  Every time!  Imagine?  Huh?  You’d think I planned it that way. 

I ran into the dining room where the informant was having breakfast and immediately shoved the spoon in his face.  When Mei Mei noticed the chocolate rimming his lips she demanded to know where it came from.  

He ratted me out.  

I fed this child the chocolate cake we baked on Sunday.  We played soccer.      We picked flowers.  We watched Pete’s Dragon.  We bonded.  It was a magical day.  For me at least.  He was bored shitless I’m sure.   But I thought this is only Tuesday and clearly he’ll remember our glorious fun filled day.  Right?  Wrong.  

The tip off should have been when his mother got home Sunday and asked what he had for lunch.  He pointed at me and said, “Chocolate cake”.

So what does all of this affection buying and bribery get me?  Nothing.  Well not entirely true.  This story.  That’s what it gets me. 

In the past two days the following conventions have been had. 

Where’d that chocolate come from??

He points directly at me.  

Where’d you learn to call someone a mook?

He points at me.  

Where’d you learn to head bang?

He points at me.  

Where’d you learn to spike your hair into horns?

He points at me.  

Ingrate.  

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