Dear Mr. Ice Cream Man,
Our love affair started late in life. I grew up in a rural area and didn’t have you around when I was a child. I saw you on TV, of course, as part of the idyllic suburban family landscape. But I didn’t truly discover the joy you could bring until my late 20s, when I moved to the Boston area. Your tinkly music was a delight. You always seemed to show up when I needed you, whether at the beach in Hull with friends or during a weekend spent hanging out in the Back Bay. And you showed up just often enough so that I didn’t get tired of you.
But then something changed between us.
I got married, had children, and moved to the suburbs. And all of a sudden, you began to irritate me! Your tinkly music practically sends me into a panic attack these days. Let me tell you why.
You always show up at the wrong time.
Let me give you a few examples. First, the fields after my daughter’s soccer class — at 10 in the morning! Really? You have to show up before lunch? Getting healthy food into my daughters’ bodies is hard enough, and if I give them morning ice cream, I basically have no chance.
Next, you come to the playground near our house. You do come in the afternoon, for which I commend you, but I never have my wallet. MUCH whining ensues, as my kids are too young to really understand that nothing in life is free. We have to stand there next to the truck, “looking at the flavors,” as my daughter says. It’s hard on both of us, Mr. Ice Cream Man. You wonder why we’re just standing there, not buying anything, while I keep saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t have my wallet” on repeat.
You cancel plans and don’t tell me ahead of time.
Remember? It was touch-a-truck day. You promised you’d be there for the 2.5-hour event. I told my daughters. And as we drove up less than an hour into the event, we saw you drive away. Why, Mr. Ice Cream Man, why?
But I suppose it really can’t be summer without the ice cream man.
Now that I live in an idyllic suburban community, you’re part of my summer family life. So I’ll make a deal with you. You show up in the afternoons, or better yet, the evenings. I’ll bring my wallet. We’ll stop staring and actually buy something from you. But you can’t come too often. Maybe once a week — twice at most. I’ll set a regular schedule with you if it makes things easier. (When my kids are older, we can renegotiate the number of visits.) Are we agreed?
