Make a sign, don’t cry

Scenario One: Tinkling bells of ice cream truck sound in the distance. We sit up straighter like dogs listening to an invisible whistle, cocking our heads to one side. "Is it?" we ask, and bolt for the door. Half dressed or not, we’re going out. We run down the front walk, Mr Brilliant in front carrying Tess like a sack of potatoes, her legs flailing on either side of him, bouncing up and down, side to side. Ice cream truck whizzes by (a symptom of our hyperspeed times? whatever happened to the 2-mile-per-hour lazy lollygagging of ice cream trucks?). Mr Brilliant runs into the street and follows the truck for half a block, with Tess still hanging on for dear life shrieking "ice cream man! ice cream man!" The driver never falters in his Nutty-Buddy-King-Cone-induced imitation of Mario Andretti. Tess bawls as Mr Brilliant turns back in defeat.

Scenario ad infinitum: Repeat Scenario One a thousand times. A thousand. Not 999, but ONE THOUSAND TIMES.

Intervention: After a particularly heart-wrenching race against the Ice Cream truck last night, Tess took it into her own hands today. At o’dark thirty this morning, as I waited desperately by the French press for the magic moment when I could push down the plunger, she busied herself by writing on a small piece of paper, then cut something out with her tiny roundy scissors. She had created a minuscule sign for the ice cream man, no larger than 2 inches wide, for us to put in the yard to stop him the next time. "Fantastic! Maybe make another one that’s a tiny bit bigger," I suggested, and so she did. We’ll color them this afternoon, post them on the front pillar, and dare Mr Ice Cream Truck to speed on by.

Want something? Really want it? Desperately want it? Make a sign, don’t cry.