Christmas cookies

It seems a simple enough thing, doesn't it?

The one year old was happily trapped in the kitchen and tearing through the cabinets, ripping magnets and River's art off the fridge. Then trying to wear pot holders, longer than her body, on her arms. 

We got through step one with little hassle. Some pre-made mix, butter and an egg--mixed well and set in the fridge to chill. 

One hour later...

Back in the kitchen to roll the dough and the one year old is not having it. Screaming, rattling the gate bars (but the door was open because of the oven heat and I couldn't let her wander outside), trying to climb the stool River was on. And then silence.

Sitting on the floor, her pink overalls covered in a soft mound of powdered sugar, her arms bent at the elbow and fingers spread--dusted with white--and an "Oh, shit" expression on her face. 

Clean the baby. Clean the sugar. Resume.

Cutting cookies in greasy dough--stars, trees, bells, angels, gingerbread men. All to the varying sounds of a hungry, getting tired one year old.

Send River down to the  floor each round of dough rolling to amuse his sister. Swap when the cutting begins. When he's down, she's climbing up onto the stool trying to snatch dough and eat it or gnawing on the corner of the counter angrily. 

The kitchen is a mess. A mother's war zone of slimy dough smears, flour puffs, empty containers, and dirty cookie cutters.

 

Kick both kids out of the kitchen (and one is not pleased)...

Baby off to nap. A brief down time and then frosting cookies with the oldest. Sprinkles in messy piles--red and green and white. Messy, towering, horrible, corn syrup-laced created piles of decorative frosting. Sugar so potent that one cookie has the boy child running insane laps his eyes lit with the buzz of a sugar high.

And it was insane and it was unhealthy, but it was life at home with kids and he had fun. It was work and it wasn't required but it was Christmas. 

Cookies on paper plates with candy canes and wrapped in plastic wrap to be given away. Job done. Check list checked. Scribble it off the to-do--black over black over black.

And I was tired.

Until next year when we try it all again. When two children are big enough for a sinfully, horrible, disgusting pile of frosting. 

Maybe they will remember decorating gingerbread cookies with mom when they are grown. Maybe it will be knit into their happy memories of Christmas. If so, that's another check on the checklist--the checklist of my soul.