Carrie Link

MY CUP(S) RUNNETH OVER

To say Rojo is obsessed with the ice cream truck is akin to saying it rains a lot in Portland. One really has to LIVE here and be WET 9 out of 12 months for YEARS, to get it.

For, oh, I don't know how long, approximately his WHOLE FLIPPIN' LIFE he's been fascinated by them. Then the fascination turned to obsession. Then the obsession turned to perseveration. From March 1 to October 1 it's "Mom, is the ice cream truck going to come today? Is it 100% chance that the ice cream truck is coming today? Is it scale from 1-10, 10, that the ice cream truck is going to come today?"

Approximately every 20 minutes.

I. Kid. You. Not.

And the songs. Dear Lord, help me with the songs. He hums, taps, and plays (loudly and often) on the piano "The Entertainer," "Do Your Ears Hang Low," and "Turkey in the Straw," all day, every day. All. Day. Every. Day.

For the last three months he's "been" the ice cream truck. He gets on his scooter, the one he peeled the handle bar thingies off of, dons his helmet and away he goes. I follow along on Woohoo's old purple bike and psychedelic helmet, and stop him some pre-arranged number of times, always more than 5 and fewer than 15, most commonly 12.

It is with great panache that I yell, "ICE CREAM!" every 10 yards as we tool around the neighborhood. He pulls the scooter over, I pull the purple bike over, and I ask him for ice cream. My choices are: Sponge Bob Squarepants, Firecracker, Bubble Gum Swirl, Choco Taco, or Cotton Candy Swirl. When I've really had it and want to *&@% him up bad, I ask for Mocha Almond Fudge, to which he always looks quizzically and says, "Do they make that?" Then he pretends to pull ice cream from the back of the scooter, slaps it in my hand, I slap him pretend money, and we're good for another 10 yards.

Because I have far more pride and ego (and all the other deadly sins) than he, I try to only yell "ICE CREAM!" when we're out of ear shot of passersby. Not easy to pull off, since our neighborhood has more pedestrians than Carter's got pills.

All this is to say I've had it, and he knows it, and that's what makes him our little Rojo, doesn't it? Just when you can't flippin' take it another moment, he delivers.

Yesterday we went shopping for frozen fruit bars at 9:02. He hummed. He tapped. He sang. He fiddled with every knob in my car. He went through my purse. He played with the windows. Just before my head exploded he looked at me with a 13-year-old boy smirk and said, "Want to hear the boob song?" Then he started singing, "Turkey in Your Bra."