Ever since my three-year-old learned what ice cream was, I became a victim. Austin learned early on how to bat his eyes just the right way, flash that mischevious grin, and to use “Please, Momma” in only the most angelic way possible. I was putty in his hands.
My ice cream became his.
By the time Everett entered the mix, both boys had commandeered it all. Not cool, boys. Not cool.
So, for anyone who has been victimized by a preschooler robbing you of all your dessert, I’m about to change your life. Ready?
Take this…
And, this…
Insert the pint of ice cream into the Dickey’s cup, and it magically disappears. There still must be subtlety in eating said ice cream in front of the children, but, at least, when they catch you in the act, you don’t have to chunk it across the room, show them your empty hands and pretend you were never eating something in the first place. So very wasteful.
My first test run with the Dickey’s cup quickly caught Austin’s radar. No sooner had I taken my first bite than Austin poked his head from around a corner and demanded to know what I was eating.
“Broccoli,” I told him. “Lots of broccoli.”
He stared at me skeptically for a few seconds as I held my breath. Then, he sighed and carried on his way, not willing to take the chance that I might not be bluffing.
Momma wins. And, then, the next night, I served broccoli with dinner and made the kids eat it. Ouch. Sorry, guys.
Hands off the ice cream.
a beautiful mess 