One Scoop, Briefly

Saturday afternoon we had important visitors.

My six-year-old nephew came over for a few hours. I won’t tell you his real name. Around here, children deserve a little privacy. Let’s simply call him The Small Tornado.

A cheerful boy with a head full of curls and the remarkable gift of turning any orderly situation into an archaeological site in under five minutes.

My wife declared it was time to celebrate “Uncle and Aunt Day,” which, according to her, is a perfectly legitimate holiday if you have enough enthusiasm. So we took him to the little ice cream shop on the university campus.

Naturally, I bought him the largest ice cream they could legally sell to a child.

Three scoops.

Rainbow sprinkles.

And a bright blue syrup that looked less like food and more like something the local car wash might use to polish a vintage Camaro.

Children have an extraordinary relationship with ice cream.

Adults eat it.

Children become it.

Within minutes the blue syrup was making determined progress down both of his arms. The sprinkles had somehow migrated behind his ears. Every few steps he left sticky little footprints on the pavement, as if a snail had recently developed a serious sweet tooth.

I stood there watching him with genuine admiration.

It is astonishing how much disorder one small human being can create before an ice cream has even begun to melt.

While The Small Tornado was enthusiastically spreading the remainder of his dessert over his jacket, a woman walked past carrying a tablet tucked under one arm.

She stopped for just a moment.

Looked carefully at the blue masterpiece standing in front of us.

Then she looked at me.

She tapped something on her screen and gave me a look I recognized immediately.

Not an angry look.

More the expression of someone who has just discovered bird droppings on a freshly cleaned coat and has decided that the universe could have been organized better.

She never said a word.

Some people don’t have to.

For a brief moment I considered telling her that childhood has never been a particularly tidy business.

Instead, I calmly wiped a generous streak of blue syrup off my nephew’s forehead with my thumb… and licked it clean.

Sometimes an uncle has to establish the proper chain of command.

My wife witnessed the entire performance.

“Now, Marcel…”

She nudged my bodywarmer with her handbag, not hard enough to hurt, just firmly enough to improve my judgment.

“That lady is simply doing her job,” she said with the kind smile that usually means I have already lost the discussion. “Why don’t you stop performing for strangers and start helping that child with a wet cloth?”

She’s remarkably efficient at reducing my grand principles to household tasks.

In the end, we decided that a damp cloth wasn’t nearly ambitious enough.

Once we got home, The Small Tornado received what could only be described as a gentle rinse with the garden hose before we felt comfortable returning him to his parents.

The blue stains are still on my driveway.

They’ll disappear eventually.

Probably.

But every time I walk past them, I remember that some afternoons aren’t measured by how clean they leave the house.

They’re measured by how quietly it feels once the little footsteps have gone home.