On a given night there are no fewer than 4 to 5 different ice cream trucks that blare their happy kiddie music through the neighborhood, each with there own version of Pop Goes the Weasel (which competes nicely with our own version of whatever Johnathan has playing at the time). No neighborhood could eat this much I cream I surmised. Therefore, I deduced that the ice cream trucks must be a front for the Fremont Drug Trade.
Today, we tested that theory.
After a day in the sun treating Johnathan to his first long walk along the beach in Alameda - which he loved once he heard the gentle sounds of the water (this from the kid who refused baths just a few short weeks ago) and coming home to washing the cars, we decide it's time for a snack.
Sure enough, five minutes lat
er, an ice cream truck
appears around the corner.
er, an ice cream truck 
appears around the corner.
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