we all scream for ice cream

We decided to stop at this little roadside ice cream/shaved ice shack on the way home from picking R up from school.  R and P have been there before. 

This little shack only accepts "cold hard cash or good checks" direct quotes from the signage displayed in their window.  Ryk tells me as I pull up, "when I came here with daddy, someone else paid cause dad didn't have any money."  No surprise given we are adults of a debit card generation.  Thankful to whoever took pitty on my 7 year old that day and purchased his sweet treat, I am sure he charmed someone with his toothless grin.  Despite this no cash to pay ordeal, I assure their experience was much less uneventful than when we were there. 

All in about 4 minutes things turned from the teal swing picturesque smiles, and ice cream anticipation, to meltdown central.  And I'm not just talking ice cream melting, I am talking 4 kids being a hot mess.

Kip chose "ganilla," then noticed a kid was eating his favorite "green kind" - mint chocolate chip.  So he cries because he wanted a new one.  He further validates his feelings of frustration in his selection by saying "I HATE 'ganilla, let me just have a new kind PLEASE!"

Despite Kip's loud verbal word vomit, I overhear a mom, who had perfect hair and an ironed dress with kids dressed equally as pristine behaving like gems, tell her kids "we don't say hate do we children..."

I'm thinking to myself, yeah you probably don't say butt or fart or OMG either.  Get your children away quick, mine must be toxic!  But I smile amd try my best to help Kip work through his state of pissed off ice cream rage.

Then Hartley projectile spit ups in the lemon lime shave ice cup that I hadn't even taken a bite of yet, in my efforts to calm the Kip chaos.  Whatever, i'll take that as my cue to begin my get on track with the sexy body after baby mode.  I hand the small lemon lime shave ice with a hefty side of baby puke to the high school aged gal working this shack to throw away for me, because there weren't any trash cans.  

Poor gal, after witnessing the Loprinzi wrath, she'll probably never have kids.  Ever. 

Jovie spills chocolate ice cream all over her new outfit and cries "cause my pretty new 'spakle' pants a be all ruined forevea and I gots brown all everywhere and I am sticky."  Such tragedy!

Ryker eats his vanilla cone while saying "it is good we had money today so someone else didn't have to pay for us all."  Then rather loudly, in this crowded area with mamas who are much better put together than me, with kids who make no messes and don't cry over hating their choice of icecream, and don't have a baby that projectile spit ups in their lemon lime shave ice; Ryk feels the need to say in one of those should only be used at the playground loud voice,  "Jovie looks like she has diarrhea all over her shirt."

This begins an epic potty talk conversation between Kip and Ryk, and I am just sitting there...

so very outnumbered.

I realize a few things: that I would fit in much better in Oregon with my children, and that this outting would probably make me so embarrassed if it happened to me a few years ago.

But I am at a point in parenthood that I adore.  Acceptant of this place that I am at - a mama with kids she loves fiercely,  but could teach better manners to.  A mama who giggles when potty talk errupts, and bolts out of the joint as quickly as possible to discuss "appropriate out in public manners" with her little boys for the gazilionth time.  A mama who promises a magic solution and the washing machine will " 'rerase' the diarrhea looking icecream mess from the new 'spakley' pink pants and shirt" of her overly dramatic 3 year old girly.  A mama who wipes spit up residual from the final fourth's face using the corner of her own sweat soaked shirt, exposing the mama stretch marks on her side for all the onlookers to see.  A sight of life lived, and lessons learned. 

A beautiful, chaotic mess.

And I wouldn't change it for the world.