Sometimes, even when you know better, you have to do the wrong thing with your child. Things like... oh, I don't know... sharing your rocky road ice cream with your nineteen month old son, just minutes before his bed time.
Does my nineteen month old son like chocolate ice cream with marshmallows and almonds? Well, he likes the ice cream part just fine. The almonds go down easily, thanks to swimming in cool, gooey ice cream. The marshmallows? He makes a face like I'm actually slipping him turpentine and fishes them out of his mouth, dropping them into my hand. Ahh... yes... our new game. If he doesn't like it, it goes in my hand. We could be at the table, with a whole flat span of space before him where he could put whatever horror I've inflicted on him, but somehow it's always better if its in daddy's hand.
What follows the ice cream is screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. Screaming for more ice cream. Screaming momma's hand. Screaming because he doesn't want help with his toothbrush. Screaming for the sake of screaming.
I'm starting another cluster headache, so each shriek vibrates through my skull like it was punctuated with a rusty hammer, but it's still worth it. Seeing Chunk's face light up with his first taste of chocolate is pretty great, no matter what the price.