Page 42 of Mister Mom

We step inside and head over to the glass case displaying all the flavors. A sign behind the counter proclaims ‘Home of fifty flavors’.

“I can’t see,” Payne says, tugging on my pant leg.

I bend over and lift him up so that he can see into the freezer. He leans forward as I walk the length of the counter so he can see each and every damn flavor.

“Looks like they have cookie dough, bud. Is that what you want?” He’s quiet and doesn’t say anything. His expression is serious his brows drawn. “Payne?”

“There’s so many.” He juts out his bottom lip.

“What can I get you?” the teenaged boy behind the counter asks.

“Can you give us a minute? He’s still deciding,” I say.

“Sure thing. Just let me know when you’re ready.” He starts checking the stock of the ice cream buckets, clearly buying time until we’re ready.

I look back to Payne. “All right, what’s it gonna be?”

“I don’t know. Go back that way?” I walk back from where we came from.

“Again?” I ask after he’s still biting his lip and in deep thought. Does this kid never get ice cream that the decision on the kind is this crucial?

I do as he asks and what feels like twenty, but is actually only four minutes later Payne has settled on his original pick of cookie dough.

Note to self: Next time I have to buy a kid ice cream ask for their order and go to the counter alone.

“I think we’re ready,” I say loud enough for the employee to hear me.

He heads over from the other end of the counter, probably as annoyed as I am right now. “What’ll it be?”

I set Payne down on his feet and shake my arms out. I might work out on a regular basis, but I don’t hold a forty-pound barbell in my arms for five minutes straight.

“Cookie dough, please.” I point to the tub in question.

“What size do you want?” he asks.

I look down to Payne. “I want a triple scoop,” he says.

I shrug. “Triple scoop it is.” It took long enough for the choice of ice cream, we aren’t going back and forth on how many scoops.

“You sure about that?” the teenager questions my order.

“You heard the kid,” I say and Payne starts cheering and jumping up and down in excitement. Three scoops might be a tad too much, but hey, I’m the Manny. The teenage boy can keep his opinion to himself.

“Okay then.” The teenager grabs a cone from the stack and works on assembling Payne’s masterpiece.

Once I’ve paid we head back out onto the street and begin walking toward my truck.

For the first time all day, Payne is silent, mostly because his tongue is working overtime licking at his ice cream. My hand on his back guides him in the right direction.

Five minutes later, halfway to Layla’s, Payne is groaning in the back seat so I turn down the radio. “What’s wrong buddy?”

“I don’t want anymore,” he says in an unhappy voice.

I pull onto the freeway and merge with traffic then take a quick glance at him in the rearview mirror. His face is covered in ice cream, dripping from his chin, on his nose and his hands.

“Payne wipe your chin with the napkin that’s around the cone, okay?”

“I can’t,” he says.

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