Yesterday as we were leaving the park, my two-year-old saw something that disturbed her greatly. And she was determined to do something about it.
In the parking lot, to the side of our minivan, sat the squished remains of an ice cream cone.
I can only speculate the sad fate of this ice cream cone before my two-year-old got to it. Perhaps some child was happily licking it and then dropped in on the ground, only to find out the five second rule doesn’t apply to drippy frozen treats that have fallen on asphalt. Maybe a little tummy was all full and simply got rid of the extra cone. Maybe a frazzled mom, realizing the damage this ice cream cone could do to her vehicle’s upholstery surreptitiously dumped the cone after she’d strapped in her little bug and closed the car door. Whatever the case, this ice cream cone had met a tragic end. But its humiliation was not over.
My two-year-old walked up to it, looked at it and said, “It’s cucka, momma.” I responded with, “Yes, it is.” I thought that would be the end of it, but no. My little angel stared at it for a moment longer then proceeded to stomp on it repeatedly.
Wham! Wham! Wham! Five or six bone-jarring stomps later, she was finally done. I’m not sure if her dairy allergy cause her to unleash latent aggression on the poor ice cream cone, or if she truly saw it as a threat, but one thing is certain: the remains of that ice cream cone were pulverized. They had become one with the pavement.
When her stomping was done, she looked up at me with a grin that all too closely approximated the joker’s and crowed, “It’s Dead!”
I will sleep much more soundly knowing the menace of the partly decomposing ice cream cone has been thoroughly vanquished. And should any other food monster come my way, I know who will valiantly, and violently answer my call.