Tag: Cookies

Damn You, Cookies!

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There are certain times of the year that I suddenly feel a strong sense of ineptness as a mother. The Holidays are one of them. Why? Because I can’t bake. I want you to read those words again. I really want you to understand how bad at baking I am. Even my soon-to-be four year old is suspicious of trying any sweet I produce, especially if it came from the oven. Instant things like pudding, yeah I am okay at those. I still manage to screw them up every now and then though… I won’t lie.

Burnt CookiesMy inability to bake edible things stems from my aversion to following directions. I will admit that when it comes to cooking, I am as against following directions as a man is at asking for directions. What does this have to do with motherhood? Duh. Everything. Okay that’s not true. But seriously. Watch ANY holiday movie, and the women are always baking up a storm with cookies, brownies, cakes, and other sugary delights that make my mouth water. I am lucky I can make pre-made, pre-cut Toll House cookies. Even those I tend to burn to an inedible degree. Hence why I don’t cook them. (Cookie dough FTW)

Now before all you non-baking moms flay me, I am not saying that mothers who don’t bake are bad mothers, it just makes ME feel like an inept mommy. Like I just assumed that when you had children, you were downloaded with all the mommy traits, like baking. I should have known my download was busted when the whole patience thing wasn’t uploaded to my skill set, but still. I just want to bake some damn cookies with my kids! Instead, can I just go through the whole process, and then just skip the cooking part? Yes, I am talking about eating the cookie dough, or brownie dough, or cake dough. (If you lecture me on the whole eating raw egg bit, I will end you.) Is that cheating? Probably.

Part of the reason I am such a novice baker is that it requires exact amounts of things. I don’t cook that way. When I cook, I usually go based on scent. I never measure anything. I don’t even think I have a full measuring cup set, and I know for a fact I don’t have those measuring spoon thingies. I am a pretty good cook if I do say so myself. But baking… it just won’t bend to my will!

Who needs cookies for the holidays? I mean, its not like cookies matter right? Oh wait…. yeah they kind of do. Man, I fail.

Think the kids will be okay feeding Santa meatballs?

Of Cookies and Tantrums

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Dear my beautiful, charming daughter;

You are currently in your room, face streaked with tears. Your little nose, by now, will be filled with boogies, and your too-big-pants are most likely drooped halfway down your bum. You are throwing a tantrum, and a sizable one at that, while I sit on my computer typing this away. Every now and then I can hear you murmur mommy, before the crying picks up once more.

Some may think me cruel for listening to your tantrums, refusing to cater to your needs. I am sorry I did not let you have a cookie, seeing as how we will be eating dinner in less than an hour. I am sorry you found this so unfair that you threw yourself upon the ground screaming out your anger. I am sorry that as I sent you to your room you decided to stomp your adorable little feet and through a little terrible-two-tantrum.

I was patient, at first, ignoring your whining and grumbles. I even used the nice voice and made you smile. But the moment you heard cookie after dinner, the battle was lost. The face contorted, the lower lip quivered, and your little mouth parted to issue the first of many toddler screams. These little shrieks of indignation and anger only increased as you sat in your room, angry at mommy for daring to say no, but that is okay.

Four minutes have passed, and by now you have quieted. I can hear the door open and close as you contemplate exiting. Your cries have stopped, but your temper is still in full force. The little pout on your lips, and the soft sniffle as you look in my direction is proof enough. That is not your I-am-sorry pout, that is your you-yelled-at-sweet-little-me pout. Well, my beautiful little girl, pout all you want. You still can’t eat the cookies before dinner. And now, now you can’t have them after dinner either.

With Love,

Mommy