It was a familiar scene: The children were playing upstairs and Jeff and I were sitting on the couch having a late night treat. Suddenly, Evan bounded in the room. I wanna a bite, he announced and pouted his bottom lip out so far that I had no choice but to oblige. Shhhhh, I whispered spoon feeding my little bird. Swallow it quickly and go back upstairs. Pronto.
But before he could even swallow, he darted back to the hallway. Lily! Ben! Mommy gave me ice cream, he hollered gleefully. It’s yummy! In lightning fast speed, I suddenly had three tongues wagging in my face. We heard there was ice cream, they said in unison. We want some, too!
The contents of my Styrofoam cup quickly disappeared (graham cracker ice cream from the newly discovered ice cream place near our house, if you were wondering,) and I sent my little monsters back upstairs to pretend to re-brush their teeth.
Perplexed, I sat trying to analyze my youngest son’s behavior: Would the ice cream not have tasted as good to him had he not announced it to his siblings? He’s smart enough to know that the more they get, the less there is for him. Was half of the joy rubbing it in their faces, on the off chance that I wouldn’t give them a spoonful as well? Or, was it purely altruistic of him, in which case I can’t really relate at all. I have no idea.
I do want to point out something to my little brother: That ice cream was really good. And you didn’t get to have any. Just so you know.
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