Two Sons

Written back in August 2020

I have two different sons. However, at the West End Suprette each one chose the same Häagen-Dazs ice cream bar. Something with dark chocolate. I chose a Nestle Crunch ice cream bar from another part of the freezer. I paid while they continuously touched things that I asked them not to touch.

We three walked a block south to a tiny park, Septuagesimo Uno, and plunked ourselves on some benches. I handed the Häagen-Dazs bars, which came boxed-then-wrapped, to the boys. They tore open the boxes but the wrappers stymied them. I chuckled and wondered if, sufficiently motivated, they'd get the packaging open by themselves. They endeavored.

I opened my Crunch bar, lifted it by the popsicle stick, caught half a bite, and the whole bar fell away from the stick and onto the nasty city ground. Evidently the Crunch bar had passed its days in a warmer freezer spot. The old Eddie Murphy ice cream man skit, where a kid loses a whole cone, ran through my head while I debated if anything could be salvaged. My wife would rightly kill me if she heard I taught the kids that food could be eaten off the nasty city ground. And the kids would certainly tell her. I sighed, shook my head, and then looked up into two pairs of wide eyes.

Each boy gazed into my disappointed face while still ineffectively fumbling with a wrapper. I got out “Too bad” before twice “Dad, would you please help me open this?” arrived. I held out my hand, the little one handed me his package, I opened it, and I handed back an unmelted ice cream bar. A pause, then into the mouth. I held out my hand, the bigger one handed me his package, I opened it without looking, and I passed back a second bar. Turning down again, I couldn't resist a tiny bit of the chocolate coating. Perhaps, adequately distracted, the kids wouldn't report me to their mother.

“Dad, would you like some of mine?” spoken softly startled me. A dark chocolate Häagen-Dazs bar floated into my gaze attached to a popsicle stick attached to an outstretched arm attached to my nine-year-old son. He had offered me his very first bite. I choked up briefly, politely declined, told him how kind that was, and hugged the boy. He blinked, stepped back, and then launched into his bar.

Fortunately, neither kid made so much of a mess that their not-yet-broken tendency to wipe their mouths on their shirts didn't solve said mess. I collected then threw away the two boxes, three wrappers, and three sticks. Starting home, I hugged the big one again. He ran ahead maybe twenty feet.

The six-year-old generally lags behind me on the street. Now, however, he kept pace as we walked in silence. Halfway home he says “Dad, I would have offered you mine but I knew you wouldn't eat it so I didn't offer it.” And I tell him thank you and I hug him too. Quickly thereafter, we enter our building lobby and call the elevator.