I scream. You Scream. We All Scream for Ice Cream!

Last night Beckett's preschool held its annual Ice Cream Social. If you heard Beckett talk about it, you'd think hotwheels made of gold were going to be falling from the sky into tubs of ice cream and sprinkles. He was THAT excited. When he called Grandma to invite her, he was so overwhelmed with anticipatory joy that he shouted the entire conversation while literally bouncing around the coffee table. (this leads me into a question or future blog about why kids contain all the energy but have the least to do. i'm pretty convinced we could solve our energy crisis and global warming by simply harvesting the energy of preschoolers. maybe they could run on a 3 1/2 ft equivalent of a gerbil wheel. we could market it as entertainment to avoid those pesky child labor regulations.) But, back to the party. For a week and a half Beckett asked me how many times he had to go to sleep before his "ice cream party." It actually doubled as a good math lesson. Even his teacher told me how excited he was. Apparently, ice cream and grandparents dominated his conversations at school the past few days.

When Beckett arrived at his party last night, the first things he saw were Nana and Grandpa standing in the playground (they were early; clearly not from my side of the family!). I'm told the smile on Beckett's face was big enough to drive a truck through (and, quite seriously, that act would have made his smile even bigger!) I was not there to witness this raw emotion because I had volunteered to help set up the party. I was assigned the task of cutting strawberries, or, rather, crushing and ripping apart strawberries with some blunt implement I was told was a knife, resembled a knife, but failed to perform the sole function for which a knife is intended. . . cutting. But, the kids seemed happy to load heaping piles of strawberry mush on top of their ice cream sundaes!

There was one (and almost two) casualty at the ice cream party. Beckett's red balloon escaped from the firm grip of his hand (or was voluntarily released) and floated into a ceiling fan where it's string became entangled in the blades, creating a spinning torture chamber. There was nothing for the poor balloon to do but concede to the will and strength of the fan and allow itself to pop. The look of horror on Beckett's face as this tragic accident unfolded and the frantic, concerned pleas to "save the balloon" was enough to make you cry. He was so noticeably distraught that he drew in an audience of sympathizers (other parents and kids). I think prayers might have been uttered, though I can't be sure. We almost had the misfortune to repeat this tragedy when Kyler's yellow balloon (which had been a gift to Nana from Beckett, making it doubly painful) freed itself from its string and floated into yet another ceiling fan. But this balloon learned from his sad, red friend to leave its string behind. That way, it couldn't get tangled in the fan blades. Rather, it floated on the ceiling directly above the fan, where it probably still is this morning. Tragedy averted.

Even with the untimely parting of our trusted red, round friend, the evening was a success.. Ice cream was enjoyed by all (or most; Kyler had jello). Beckett and Kyler got to spend a fun-filled evening with their his grandparents, and Beckett got to show off his sweet little school. Nights like this are why we moved to Texas.