By Jessica Wiant - firstname.lastname@example.org
After two and a half years of parenting, I've decided what is my least favorite part.
To be honest, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about what I don't like about it. There's too much to love. I love watching my child learn. I love earning my child's affection. I love having his attention. I love experiencing new things with him.
But if I had to identify one thing I hate, there are some obvious suspects that come to mind: Snotty noses, diaper messes, an inconsolable sick kid crying in the middle of the night, maybe even demands to fix the same breakfast every single morning for months on end.
The truth is that none of those things bother me much. When you're a parent, the love you have for your child more than makes up for any inconvenience that child causes.
The one thing I could do without is this: When my best intentions backfire, resulting in a very upset kid.
It's happened many times but it never gets any easier.
Perhaps most recently was during Monday's sizzling heat when I promised my son I was going to take him out for ice cream. As if it wasn't hot enough outside for a woman midway through pregnancy and a toddler (especially for April when we haven't built up much tolerance yet), our air-conditioning inside failed as well.
As we prepared to walk out the door, I remembered we'd accidentally left his car seat in Daddy's Jeep. Moving that thing can be a monumental task and I wasn't about to attempt it in 90-degree heat, so alas, we were stranded.
My son took it well enough when I told him we'd have to wait for Daddy to get home from work for the evening and then we could go get ice cream.
As the indoor temperature also climbed, I made the executive decision we'd have to have supper out too: I wasn't about to make it worse by turning on the oven.
To pass the time, we stayed in the coolest climate I could find, in the basement with two fans running on high - my son clothed only in his undies.
We made it until supper time successfully, though the requests for fruity ice cream persisted and became more desperate as the day wore on.
My husband understood the promise I made and we rushed to the car as quickly as we could.
Of course, we hadn't made it but about a mile down the road when my son's cries for ice cream silenced.
I glanced back.
In no time we arrived at the restaurant and managed to wake our son up enough to go inside and sit down. He was near tears almost the entire meal for ice cream, but we kept him from making a scene by promising that as soon as we were finished we'd go to the store and let him pick out ice cream.
He wanted the "fruity" kind.
We carefully perused the entire freezer section because I wanted to be sure that after all the drama, we at least ended up with something he would like.
We settled on orange sherbet, with his seal of approval. We rushed home. I scooped him out a bowl.
And of course, he wouldn't touch it.
Contact Jessica Wiant at email@example.com.