Midday Ice Cream

It’s such a relief when your favourite pregnancy food is still good when you’re no longer pregnant. Through both pregnancies, I had a big love-on for the President’s Choice Eat-the-Middle-First! Cookies & Cream ice cream (in part because it has such a fabulously long name) so I bought another tub yesterday, somewhat nervously because what if it was a hormone thing? What if I hate it and then I have to finish it anyway before I can buy more ice cream? It was almost too stressful to even open the container and commit to tasting it.

Nevertheless, as of a few moments ago I am pleased to report that 1. I am not pregnant and 2. the ice cream is still fucking delicious. It tastes exactly like if someone ground up a big bag of oreos (which are not my go-to cookie, usually) and blended it with vanilla ice cream and then added in a few big chunks of cookie. I have discovered in the past couple of years that I am a fan of chunks in my ice cream. It’s like my mouth gets bored with all the smooth, smooth, smooth. Gimme something to gnaw on.

Exception, of course, for my sweet girlfriend, the Haagen Dazs Mayan Chocolate.

Fresco has discovered his voice. Unfortunately, he will not be our next Pavarotti. The noise he makes, which I dimly recall from Trombone’s early days, sounds a lot like a chicken who just laid a bunch of eggs crossed with that cat in heat you used to live with. Add an upshriek of delight at the end of every sentence and you have a good idea of what it sounds like to please Fresco. Strangely the noise does not make me want to please him. The noise makes me want to put him in the fridge.

Also he started teething about 10 minutes after I posted the last entry, the one about the screaming not being the worst part of parenthood. Yeah.

On the bright side, there’s still a day and a half left in the long weekend, the sun is out and my laptop is fixed. We’ve been singing a lot of Black Box’s Everybody Everybody now that we have the living room seeqpod back. (Trombone does the “OW” part.) I guess it’s our little suburban way of honouring today’s pride parade which we would not have been able to attend even if we had a nanny and 17 bottles of gin. Maybe next year.