Why my children are eating ice pops at 6:30 AM

My daughter has a very good memory.

Yesterday, when I was picking up my children from daycare, my son, for reasons still unclear to me, decided he wanted to sit in his sister’s car seat for the trip home. My daughter, a person of rule, order, and routine was offended to the point of tears this atrocity. She had right to be, as this was and always has been her seat.

My second born, lives for chaos and quite possibly did this for the sole purpose of getting her goat.

Before having children, I was the perfect hypothetical parent and would’ve known exactly how to handle the situation: leave the parking lot until Little Brother came to the understanding that I would not allow him to simply lay claim to his sister‘s seat and cause her to be upset like this (teaching empathy). On understanding this concept and respecting my authority, he would relinquish the seat of his own accord and peace would be restored. Alternatively, I would be able to reason my daughter without bribery that, at the end of the day, the seat really doesn’t matter.

Alas I am not this parent. But I am no longer a hypothetical one.

As a desperate attempt to restore even a brief moment of peace and proceed home, I offered my daughter a consolation prize if she were to relinquish her car seat and given to her brother’s unreasonable demands. “Do you want an ice pop?“ If you gave your brother, your seat, you can have an ice pop after dinner. “ She let up instantly at this prospect. “Yay! Rainbow ice pop!”

Now did I go back on my word, and refuse her an ice pop after dinner as we discussed? Absolutely not. Did I fail to follow through and offer her the promised ice pop as we discussed? …Maybe.

She did not forget though

At exactly 6:36 AM, she reviewed the terms of our peace treaty. “Mommy, you never gave me an ice pop.” Now confronted with the consequences of my own promises, I was completely stuck. “You’re right, darling, I didn’t…. Do you want your ice pop now, or later?”

“Now!” She says with a grin. Despite a warm and nutritious breakfast waiting for her at the table, I sigh and reach for the freezer to get a rainbow popsicle.

Little Brother sees this and celebrates in the joy of an impending ice pop he did nothing to deserve. “Nuh uh- you need to eat at least half of your breakfast before we even think about it for you, mister,” I say.

“No, ice pop!” he retorts.

“Rice… ice pop.” “Rice… ice pop.” I explain, using as simple language as possible. Something I read in a parenting book somewhere.

Convinced this is an acceptable deal he shovels down rice at a pace I’ve never seen him match before. Another ice pop is granted.

As they lick and crunch away in bliss I anxiously look toward the bedroom door and begin to rehearse: Why my children are eating ice pops at 6:30 AM.