I make sugar cookies twice a year-- Valentine's and Halloween. It is just enough time between the two to forget how I swore I'd never make them again. What a mess.
I made the dough last night and thought to myself, "Self, this isn't so bad, why don't we do it more often?" Self forgot that the worst part was to come.
The dough was too sticky, so I had to add in flour this morning before I could roll it out. I had four 4-year olds standing on chairs around my island, poised with cookie cutters and waiting for me to finish rolling. Even though it is Halloween, we had dinosaurs, trucks, stars, and even a few Christmas trees. (That's my boy!)
I baked the first batch for too long. (Can't quite get the hang of this new oven.) I ran out of butter for the frosting and had to call a neighbor. There was orange frosting everywhere-- seriously, I'm sure that I didn't make anywhere near as much as I cleaned up. It must have the same self-replication properties as the toothpaste that gets all over the kids' bathroom. It multiplies itself too.
The kids were actually pretty good-- at least they confined their part of the mess to the kitchen table. They ate a lot of cookies too-- sorry if anyone pukes. Lucky for me, Doug doesn't really care much for cookies.
I'm documenting this experience so that maybe I won't be so dumb come February. It worked with Doug-- I wrote all about labor in my journal and haven't had another baby since. . .
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