C is for Cookie, That's Good Enough for Me

Oh, this day, this day. Wait. That was yesterday. Well, today was pretty much the same, minus the fever, plus additional agitation/aggression by Heath. I feel mildly sorry for him because he coughs every fifteen to thirty seconds, so that's got to be driving him nuts. Listening to it is no picnic either. But holy moly, he had to pinch, scratch, swat, push, throw everyone and everything in sight. Time outs were of little consequence. At the end of the day, he said, Stella, wanna get in my bed and play?

No, she said, and ran as quickly as she could out of his room.

I hate it for him. I hate it for her. Heck, I hate for me. But I am trying to understand and work with it.

So we made some Valentine's Day sugar cookies. Ingredients were happily dumped into the glass bowl. The mixing with a whisk was fast and furious. Heath rubbed flour across wax paper with every little digit. The rolling pin spun across the dough, and the heart-shaped cookie cutter was pushed in with all his strength. Heath topped each cookie with cinnamon with as much ferocity as the shaker could handle.

He insisted on having the oven light on so he could watch them bake, and was completely thrilled when we got them out. But he doesn't eat cookies, so he just carried one around for a while, giving it an occasional lick.

Stella, on the other hand, quickly devoured one and said, I want, I want, while pointing at the red cookie tins.

Here, Gigs, you can have mine. Heath handed Stella his licked-upon love cookie. In the interest of good sharing, I decided to stifle my you've-licked-that-and-you've-got-a-cold comment.

Besides, she'd already shoved the whole cookie in her mouth and ran off into another room. I think she was afraid he might change his mind and take it back.