A weekday outing to get frozen yogurt with friends… gold star playdate overflowing with giggles and sprinkles, no? Unless you’re #1. #1 took this sugar-soaked opportunity to release her inner demon spawn in public.
As I ensured #2’s container remained free from allergenic contents, #1 grabbed a mamoth paper cup and began pulling serving handles, pouring ribbons of frozen colors into her container. I caught her as she reached the fourth lever. I took the cup: “Only Mommy pulls the handles, hon’.” #1 was irritated.
I moved to the toppings. #2 wanted gummy frogs. As I plopped two jiggly, technicolored frog-shaped blobs into his dairy-free treat, #1 melted on the floor because she had a dollop of melting frozen yogurt on her finger. I handed her a napkin. Unsatisfactory! I offered to help her wash her hands after we pay. The horror!
“You have until the count of three to choose your toppings, or you don’t get any.” 1… no movement 2… a scowl. 3. I put the paper bowls on the scale, smiled, nodded, and paid as the teenage cashier looked back and forth between me and my enraged firstborn, who was now writhing like a rabid octopus and demanding toppings.
#2 and #3, completely unfazed by #1’s public display of demonic possession, sat and partook in the playdate. I invited #1 to calm down and join us. “I don’t like ice cream without toppings!” “I’m sorry you didn’t choose in time. We’re here with friends. You can either be friendly and join us, or go alllllll the way down to the end of the bench and sit by yourself. I’ll hold onto your ice cream.” She wailed her way down the bench and curled up angrily in the corner.
The rest of us chatted and the well-behaved children happily slurped colorful frozen spoonfuls. “Stop talking!” #1 barked from her pouting perch. I glared at her and returned to the conversation. “This isn’t fair!” She lamented as she scooted closer. I turned to her and quietly gave her one more chance, reminding her that she’d be sad later if she wasted this fun playdate being grumpy. She fumed. I turned back around.
Then I see #1’s sparkly light-up sneakers next to me. She has returned. She scoffs at her naked, partially melted frozen mound — which #3 had sampled — and rejoins the playdate.
Frozen yogurt playdate: survived.