Sunday afternoon I had a delicious soft-serve ice cream cone from The Big Gay Ice Cream Truck. I'd heard amazing things about this infamous truck that normally prowls the streets of New York, so when I found out they would be in town I begged the Hubs to take me out for a treat. I rarely eat dairy; I drink only almond milk, I never have ice cream, and if I do indulge in cheese it's of the goat variety. I certainly haven't had any dairy since the Muffin Man was born, but fond memories of the Mr. Softee stands of my childhood compelled me to throw caution to the wind and chow down on a very large portion of soft, creamy deliciousness. The "Salty Pimp" was yummy, if a tad sweet, but I certainly didn't let that dissuade me from finishing it. I enjoyed my ice cream so much that I spent most of the afternoon asking myself, "why don't you eat more ice cream? It's delicious!" Right after I vowed to brighten my life with more pints of Ben and Jerry's, the Muffin Man began projectile spitting up, and he didn't stop for the rest of the afternoon and evening. There was spit up on the couch, on Noah, on the floor...and I even found some in my hair. When he wasn't spitting up he was moaning, crying, or making these pathetic little grunting noises while attempting to expel the dairy-tainted breast milk from his system. Needless to say, Sunday night was a long one. At one point when I was up with him for the fifth time in as many hours, I cursed my nostalgia for the soft serve cones of my childhood. I've since sworn off any frozen treat that's not made from coconut milk, because trust me, nothing tastes as good as sleeping feels.
No comments:
Post a Comment