There are days when I feel like I’ve got this whole parenting thing down. The kids eat a vegetable, no one cries at Target, and I even get a hot coffee before noon. Then there are days when Nico is melting down because his sock seam is “literally stabbing him,” and Anthony is screaming that the car seat is a prison. That’s when I look them both in the eye and say the magic words: “If you stop crying, we’ll get ice cream.” And suddenly—silence.
Now, I know there are parenting books out there that would clutch their pearls at the thought. Bribery? Sugar as a reward? Haven’t you heard of sticker charts and deep breathing exercises? Yes, I’ve heard of them. I’ve also heard of things like sleep, and yet I still haven’t had a full night since 2016. So forgive me if a scoop of mint chocolate chip works faster than a laminated chart with unicorn stickers.
The truth is, bribery has saved me more times than I can count. Like the dentist visit where Nico had his jaw locked tighter than Fort Knox. I leaned down, whispered “ice cream after this,” and suddenly he opened wide like the world’s happiest alligator. The dentist thought I had some magical parenting trick. Nope. Just the promise of a sprinkle cone.
Anthony, bless his chaotic little soul, is even easier to negotiate with. The kid would sell me his future Lego collection for a push-pop. Last week, he refused to put on pants before preschool. Rex tried logic, I tried pleading. Nothing. I finally held up the freezer door and just said, “Rocket pop?” Pants were on in six seconds flat. Honestly, I should probably be embarrassed, but mostly I’m just impressed at his hustle.
It’s not that I don’t set boundaries. Trust me, my kids know I can throw down a mean “because I said so.” But sometimes, you just need to survive the grocery store without becoming the mom whose child is lying face-down in aisle seven screaming about Goldfish crackers. Ice cream is my survival tool. Some people carry a multitool in their purse; I carry the promise of a McFlurry.
And honestly? There’s something sweet (pun intended) about it. Those little trips for cones have turned into mini rituals. We pile into the car, Rex driving with one hand on the wheel and the radio blasting, the boys sticky-fingered and giggling in the backseat. We argue over who gets what flavor—Nico is die-hard cookies and cream, Anthony changes his mind every 45 seconds, and I, of course, stick with chocolate peanut butter like the predictable mom I am. The whole ride home, it smells like waffle cones and laughter, and for those 20 minutes, life is good.
Sometimes I wonder if my kids will grow up and tell their therapists, “Yeah, my mom bribed me with ice cream.” But maybe they’ll say it with a smile, remembering how those nights felt. Parenting isn’t about being perfect. It’s about getting through the day, about finding the little hacks that keep everyone sane. And if my hack comes in the form of a double scoop? Well, so be it.
So yes, I bribe my kids with ice cream. I don’t feel bad. Not even a little. And honestly, if you catch me in the Starbucks drive-thru after school pick-up, bribing them again with cake pops so I can drink my latte in peace—don’t judge. Just wave and know that we’re all doing what we can, one sprinkle at a time.