The ice cream truck.

Does your neighborhood have one? We get sporatic visits from the guy who drives the truck full of tasty frozen treats, with photos of each item plastered on the side of the vehicle that blares ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ from two neighborhoods away. Funny how as an adult, I tend to get the same treat that I bought as a child, patriotic-colored Bomb pops that turn my lips an interesting shade of Smurf-blue.

The boys go into sheer panic mode as if they’d not eaten in days over the sound of the truck’s music indicating that A) if you’re lucky and make a run for Dad’s wallet you B) just might get the chance to buy a Drumstick. I laugh at the wails that could shatter glass in our home, ‘Mom…the ice cream truck…he’s in the NEIGH-BOR-HOOOOOOOOD!’ I remember that excitement. There was something about buying ice cream from a complete stranger that made it seem special. Something about this ice cream tastes better than what they sell at Kroger down the street. Sure, you can buy a box of ice cream sandwiches there, but where besides the neighborhood ice cream truck can you buy just one? And not just one, but one that was handed to just you?

And so it goes in our home, the constant wondering if today’s the day we’ll receive a visit, or if we missed him while out at dinner, because how dare we eat. We’ve even hopped in the car to go searching after picking up the faint hint of his music being drowned out by lawn mowers and kids on scooters, only to come up empty-handed. Eventually, our two dejected boys return home to stare at a box of freezer-burned fudge bars in our kitchen.

Until last Saturday, when our ice cream man, who in our opinion beats out the Schwan guy in popularity, drove up and I told him the kids had been looking for him all week, and were about to sign themselves up for some sort of frozen dairy support group. ‘Save yourself the stress, I only come on Saturdays.

Now you tell me.