Once a year during our California trip we overindulge at Fenton's, ordering a giant mountain of ice cream. (Honestly because 4-5 scoops on a single plate is like $10 vs. $4/each separately, and this Momma is cheap.) Everyone who is old enough to express an opinion picks one scoop if they'd like, this year bringing us to 4 scoops because Jason and I share.
More years than not the whole experience has sent Olive over the edge because her ice cream touches some one else's ice cream, or the Cracker looks at her funny, or whatever. Sorry, kid, but if you can look past that there's ice cream to be had.
Older and wiser, 2016 was going well, until she ate too much. The scoops are HUGE. After two hours of crying she barfed in a parking lot an hour before dinner.
We were not close to base, and already had reservations to sit in a trolley at an Old Spaghetti Factory that Callum was really excited about. And really, she was 100% fine now. We went.
Olive was so fine, it turns out, that she ate the ice cream that comes at the end of a Spaghetti Factory meal. Me = Traumatized. Her = What? Why?
Lesson not learned. I love it when other parents talk about how well consequences work as a one-size fits all parenting strategy. Yup, now meet Olive.
New nightmare: Olive and alcohol.
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