Owen has come to a cruel realization. Just about every fiber of his being loves ice cream, except for his teeth. When he took a big bite out of Mimi's dipped cone at Dairy Queen a few weeks ago, he enjoyed about one second of bliss before his face distorted, arms shot out stiff, and shivers rippled through him like he was a nervous Chihuahua. When he recovered and started to go in for a return bite, he hesitated.
"We make ice cream wome?"
"No, honey. I'm sorry. If we tried to make ice cream warm, it wouldn't be ice cream anymore."
Then we went to Cape Canaveral and I realized that astronauts everywhere must have been rolling their eyes at my ignorance.