Drunk On Ice Cream

We went to Florida to answer a simple question:  How much ice cream is too much ice cream?  Luca happily agreed to be our research subject.

About mid morning, we would indulge our children in poolside ice cream treats.  Luca is a boy who knows how to eat ice cream.  This child would smear chocolate all over his face and stomach like a sticky moisturizer.  Afterwards, as a courtesy to us, he would leap into the pool to wash off. 

There would usually be another ice cream mid afternoon and then we would walk the ½ mile up the beach for dinner, with the hope of an ice cream for dessert.  One night we ended up at a restaurant called “Nervous Nelly’s.”  Why was Nelly nervous?  Well, the three year old vibrating at table 8 had consumed three pounds of vanilla that day.

After a yet another meal of macaroni and cheese (our secondary research involved how much processed cheese one child can consume), Luca ordered a sundae.  By the time he finished he was absolutely hammered.  He was jacked on the sugar sauce.  For a minute, I wondered if the waiter had slipped a little rum in there.  Luca spoke a mile a minute, chattering about stuff drunk people chatter about.  Like starting a band or opening a wine shop.  He got up and danced to the hilarious awful cover duo with his mother.  It was all I could do to keep him from leaping into the ocean.

And as suddenly as it began, Luca crashed.  Hard.  As we finished our beers, Luca fell asleep in his propped up hand.  He slurred his words.  And on our walk home, he asked that we just, you know, lay down on the beach and, like look at the stars and stuff. 

Diana ended up carrying him most of the way home and he slept the innocent sleep of an addict.