oh yeah, more baking

We continued baking this evening, sugar cookies.

Tim and Julia wanted to help Kari and me, but at some point, I just couldn't handle it another second.

Julia was touching everything and not taking turns. Tim had the angel cookies pooping on the other cookies. Yeah, that's fun.

(When Little Jay was just about this same age, he thought butts were hilarious--just the funniest darn thing ever. He also found aliens intensely amusing, and believe me, there was absolutely NOTHING MORE HILARIOUS than an alien's butt. Oh, gawd.

Kirsten threatened to punch him in the head one day in the car. This is a no-hitting house, no, no, no. You cannot punch him in the head, but yeah, I totally understand.)

I suggested frosting cookies and sprinkling them would be more Tim and Julia's arena of expertise. The rolling and cutting? Boring. Let Kari and me do it.

Thankfully, they happily ran off.

Kari, aka Lydia wanted to know if angels even do actually poop?

This I do not know. I suggested she ask that question at church. Find Meta or Mark. Ask one of them if you really care to know. They know far more about angels than I do.

Sigh.

But the last of the pans are baking now, and that sweet plumber I married is asleep on the big red couch, waiting for the last of our midnight wanderers to come home.

It's started to snow, but we have slippers and heat, and a very old oven baking cookies.

My mom--this is funny--those blanket with the sleeves, the Snuggie things? She objects. "I have a bathrobe already, and I could wear it backward right now if I wanted to." See, she's smart like that.

Oh, and earlier, I had these dogs all clustered under the breadboard, tripping me as I tried to roll cookies. What the heck? Get out of here, you guys.

Then Kari told me, "They like cooky dough."

Really?

"When have dogs ever even tasted cooky dough to know they like it?"

Busted.

Oh, Lydia, Lydia, Lydia.

Time to check the pans again. Sleep tight. love, Val