Every Sunday Ryan gets up early to watch "Sunday Morning," like the rest of the elderly. He gets Meg out her her crib, and gives her a bottle during the first part of the show. Then, as it goes on, he makes her a little snack to tide her over until I get up and we go to breakfast. He tells me that snack is normally a banana and some toast, or maybe leftovers from the night before.
That's what he tells me.
This morning, I was in bed, kind of half awake, listening to Ryan and Meg go through their morning routine. I heard them talking about the dog, and playing ticklebugs, and then I heard Ryan get up, go to the kitchen, get something out of the fridge, and walk back to the living room. Then, I heard Meg's little voice, loud and clear, say "ice cream, Daddy, ice cream."
When I awoke I figured that Meg must have been asking for ice cream, but not getting it, or that I had simply dreamed the whole thing. Still, I had to ask.
"Did you and Meg have ice cream this morning?"I wish I could argue with that logic. Really though, yogurt is yogurt, in all it's forms. Oh, and it means I can count the lime juice in my gin as a serving of fruit. Most importantly though, it's something my husband and our daughter share, one morning a week, while Mom sleeps in. That's what the best memories in life are made of. Who am I to stand in the way of that?
Nothing. Ryan looked at Meg. She smiled.
"Why would you say that?" Ryan asked.
"Oh, I just thought I heard Meg say 'ice cream, Daddy, ice cream'."
Meg smiled bigger. Ryan turned to her.
"Are you ratting me out?" She burst into giggles. Ryan turned back to me.
"It was actually frozen yogurt, so it's healthy."