Is there anything more torturous than watching a toddler eat a Popsicle? The mercury hit 90 degrees in Oak Park this afternoon, so I gave Z a Popsicle Scribbler (basically a smallish Popsicle "made with fruit juice") for dessert for dinner. We headed out to the back steps to enjoy our frozen novelties in the fresh air, but the torture of watching Z slooowly take a little lick of the top of her pop, scoot down all 10 of our steps, scoot back up, and take another tiny lick sapped all of the fun out of it for me.
How old does a kid need to be to understand that enjoying ice cream on a stick means battling against the forces of time and temperature? The Popsicle was glistening in the heat, and Z would grab it by the frozen center to get a better hold on the stick. Did I mention she was wearing a really cute skirt? Well, I pulled it off after the first drip landed.
I was cajoling her to take a little bite...lick the sides...anything to get the show on the road, but she blithely ignored me, happy instead to spy on the neighbors as Popsicle juice ran down her chin and cascaded over her fingers. Her remedy? Once again, she grasped the Popsicle around the middle so she could lick the sticky runoff from her fingers and inner arm. Kind of defeats the point, doesn't it?
Finally, after 10 minutes of this torture, she handed me the remainder of her Popsicle with an "I'm done." I tried to figure out what was more urgent: throwing away the melting mess or getting my messy kid under some running water.
