The Music Truck

We live in an absolutely prime kid-friendly neighborhood.  For our stage of life, you couldn't ask for a better place to be.  We have a park right across the street.  The kind that takes up one full square block.  Complete with tennis courts, playground, baseball field, and a huge wide expanse of lush green.  On the other side of the park is a library.  Complete with the best children's section in town.  And across from both of those things is a totally free Historical Museum.  (Think Little House on the Prairie.)

All things considered, it's no surprise that there is an ice cream truck that makes the daily rounds from April all the way through September more religiously than a monk trying to earn his way to heaven.

Years ago, I had heard this meaningless tidbit from a friend, and it had always stuck with me.  This comment was an afterthought to a conversation, rather than the focal point.  But she said something about how the only good thing her ex-daughter-in-law did as a mom was tell her kids the ice cream truck was a "music truck".  I am pretty sure I heard that before we even had kids of our own.

But for whatever reason, it stayed with me.  (Maybe even more note-worthy since I didn't grow up with ice cream trucks or music trucks and had no idea that they actually existed and weren't just something out of the movies.)

I think it might have been an act of God.  Who had the big picture in mind and knew that one day, we would be moving into this prime time kid zone.  Music truck and all.

So from the time my kids were able to talk, I taught them that that truck was the Music Truck.  We have lived in our house for five and a half years, and the kids run to the doors, windows, curbs whatever is closest, on a daily basis throughout the summer to greet the music truck.

Last summer, I found us in a couple of precarious situations when I thought the gig was up.  There were people around us who would mention the "Ice Cream Truck," and I would quickly respond with something about "Oh, yeah, we're big fans of the music truck at our house.  We love the songs!!!"

Then there was one point when the neighbor grandkids were visiting last summer and bought something from the Music Truck.  Thankfully, we were on our way out and were loading into the car, so I thought there might have been a chance that my kids missed the transaction that took place between the Music Man and the neighbors.

And then we heard those first annoyingly famous chimes of the Music Truck sometime in April 2012.  And an era came screeching to a halt, crashing and burning just as violently as the Hindenburg.  The kids ran to the door, ready to greet the ever faithful neighborhood mascot.

But this time, these pounding footsteps and squeals were accompanied by requests of "Can we get something?"

And a part of me died inside.

And not just because I was doing mental gymnastics figuring the math of at least one time past our house (sometimes two) daily x April-September x at least two kids asking = a whole lot of "No, you may not get something from the Music Truck" conversations.

More because it was symbolic of the end of the innocence.  The days when my kids know of and believe nothing but what I tell them.  The days of Mama's always right and Mama always knows best.  The days when anyone who contradicted that was absolutely crazy and also has three heads.

So this summer begins a whole new era in our house.  One that includes the Music Truck (which the kids still call it) as well as the Ice Cream Truck (for now they know what is inside that crazy truck).

Sad day.