I'll always remember this as the summer my kids learned about the ice cream truck. In summers past, the ring-ring-ring from the street was just another neighborhood sound, like a dog's bark or the distant rumble of a train from the tracks a few blocks away. This summer, however, my four-year-old twin son and daughter are magically in "the know." (A playmate with more indulgent parents must have enlightened them: Yes, Virginia, there is an ice cream truck.) Now twice a day, once in mid-afternoon and once near bedtime, G. and L. bolt to the front yard shouting, "The ice cream truck! The ice cream truck!" They are the munchkins running eagerly to greet Glenda the Good Witch. And I am the Wicked Mommy of the West, for I have never bought them treats from the ice cream truck.

Not once.

I am, admittedly, a cheapskate, but that is not the reason. And I do not refuse them treats simply because I rarely have cash on hand (also true). The fact is I am philosophically opposed to the ice cream truck.

You see, I've prided myself on having a certain level of control over my children's lives. For example, my husband and I have thus far prevented our kids from watching commercial television. We dislike the violence, the inanity, and the insidious brainwashing of commercials. The kids are just as happy to watch public television and appropriate videos. And since I stay at home with my children everyday, I feel like I have control over most of the variables of their lives: who they play with, where they go, what they read, etc. It's been a rather comforting delusion to have these past few years: I'm in control, I know what my kids are doing, I know what they know and don't know. Then along comes this ice cream truck and suddenly my kids' desires are thrown to the whim of commercialism in a rather PavlovIan fashion-- we hear a bell, we must have ice cream, drool, drool.

For a brief time, I was able to hang onto my swaying control tower. My son and daughter were content to simply wave at the truck as it went by... until H. entered the scene. H. is our next-door neighbor, an older gentleman with whom G. and L. have a Dennis the Menace/Mr. Wilson kind of relationship (except H. is never grouchy and actually seems to enjoy their company). If H. is out working in his yard, the kids hang around and pester him with questions, giving me a small reprieve. H., nice guy that he is, has bought my children treats from the ice cream truck several times recently. And now they are coming to expect it. If H. happens to be outside when the bells chime, they run to him. I'm often in the house tending their baby brother, and before I can reach the front door, they are sucking down Power Ranger ice cream bars or Bomb Pops.

The worst was the afternoon the ice cream truck came fifteen minutes after I'd given the kids a chocolate-marshmallow cone. They heard the ring-ring-ring and a split second later they were walking away from the truck with more ice cream. And when the truck went by in the evening, they had the gall to request more! (Luckily H. wasn't around.)

We've tried talking to H. about making sure the kids ask us first, but neither he nor the children seam to be able to follow through. And we've talked to the kids over and over, giving all our reasons: it's not polite to expect someone to treat you all the time; we have our own ice cream in the freezer; we could buy a whole box of treats for the price of that one from the truck; you don't need to have ice cream just because you hear a bell ring; blah blah blah. As you can guess, this kind of logic doesn't go over big with preschoolers. As L. put it, "If we want ice cream, we can get it!" I could just see the devious glint of power in his double chocolate fudge eyes.

From my top-level position in the control tower, I have a pretty good view of possible solutions. My favorite one (impractical for obvious reasons) is simply shooting the ice cream truck-- the truck, mind you, not the driver! Even though I abhor violence and guns, I'm seduced by the fantasy of tracking the truck in the scope of a rifle as it rings down my street. Three careful shots and ice cream oozes out of the disabled vehicle, forming Neapolitan puddles. Good riddance! Less satisfying but just as impractical is the idea of calling the ice cream truck company and tell them to stay out of my neighborhood. I can hear the laughter from the phone already.

Or I could be the Wicked Witch again. Swoop down upon H. shrieking "No more, never again!" Tear the treats from their sticky hands and put them in time out with Margaret Hamilton's hourglass.

Or I could compromise. Tell the kids I'll buy them the ice cream. Train the children to come to me when the bell rings and at least I can give them treats I bought myself (here we come again, Pavlov).

But when I start thinking solutions, I start to realize that the real problem is not that G. and L. want ice cream every time they hear the truck. The real "problem" is that they are no longer under my complete control. They have thoughts and desires and whims of their own. And the more freedoms I allow (like visiting H.), the less control I'll have, if I ever really had much at all. If my goal is to raise thoughtful, intelligent, wonderful children (and it is!), then control works against such purposes. I may be able to guide them, but in the end, their own thoughts, attractions, and perceptions will win out.

Sending the kids to preschool the past year was a big step in giving up my delusional control over their lives. I knew preschool would benefit both them and me, and it was wonderful witnessing how much they enjoyed learning and socializing. At the end of the year, G.'s teacher sent home a booklet of photos of G. taken throughout the year. It was full of cute pictures of my daughter doing various activities, and while it was fun to look at, it was also a poignant reminder to me that this was a portion G.'s world that didn't include me. I hadn't even known about some of the activities. My conscientious questions about each day's happenings had rendered the typical kid responses: "We played. We had a snack."

And speaking of snacks, I think I've decided what to do about the ice cream truck.

Climbing down the rickety steps of my control tower, I'll continue to communicate manners and the rules of friendship to my children without taking away H.'s grandfatherly indulgence (knowing that H. may soon tire of it and that summer is short). I'll urge them to think for themselves if a treat is really what they want or need right now, not just because a bell is ringing (though I'm sure at their age, the answer will mostly be "yes!"). I'll tell them that sometimes, for a variety of reasons, the answer to the truck's beckoning call will be "no." And then maybe, just maybe, I'll plan to tuck away a little cash-- just a little-- in case I feel like treating the munchkins. Who knows, I might even try out a Bomb Pop myself.

[Copyright 1995, Theresa Jarosz Alberti; do not reproduce without permission.]