TKW posted a delightful cookie recipe on her bloggety blog. And I read it, during the newborn’s reliable morning nap while the bigger kid was at school and thought, you know what seems like some massive self loving right now? Homemade cookies.
So I looked over the recipe. “No problem. I even have eggs. I boiled some yesterday, but…oh crap. I boiled some yesterday and they’re still on the stove. Gross. Wasteful and gross and now fuck the cookies I’m taking a shower.”
And with that, delicious newborn work up and tried to eat his Moses basket and I relented to the reality that is my world for a while. But I’m making those cookies this afternoon, with bigger kid the baking partner from my dreams, while grandma cuddles the little “if it ain’t made of warm, human flesh, I won’t sleep on it” smartest dude in the house.
Know what? I didn’t even cry. Not at losing the “baking in peace” moment or the hardboiled protein or the shower. Didn’t even think of crying.
Look at me, all bright-side of things and silver lining-ish and perspective-y. Must be the hormones.