Anyway, at about three o’clock today, when I had almost reached the saturation point on my tolerance for whining and I was exactly one minute away from becoming this:
|No! Wire! Hangers! Everrrrrr!!!!!|
I got the brilliant idea of making cookies with Iris.
I mean, what kid doesn’t love making cookies with her mother? And then eating them still warm from the oven? It sounded idyllic. It sounded ideal. It sounded like an activity that would kill a few hours of this interminable afternoon.
I pulled out a recipe for the oatmeal-zucchini cookies I made for Iris last summer. The cookies that she’d have gorged herself on had she been given the opportunity. Oh, don’t look at me that way, they’re actually quite good. Both my husband and I love them. And, last summer, Iris really did think they were the yummiest treat ever.
So, we measured and poured and mixed and tasted the batter and pronounced it good. Then, as directed, we dropped spoonfuls of batter on parchment-paper-lined cookie sheets. We put them in the oven and got them out and they looked like this:
|Yummy, golden-brown, oatmeal cookies!!|
However, when I offered one to Iris, she looked at it like I’d pulled it out of the toilet.
Iris: I don’t want those!
Me: Why not?
Iris: Those are not cookies!
Me: Yes they are!
Iris: No. I want REAL cookies!!!!”
Nothing I said or did would convince her that these were real cookies. Not eating them in front of her. Not having her father eat them in front of her. Not talking about how we’d just made them together and put them in the oven together and taken them out together and how could they possibly not be cookies? I could not even wedge a crumb between her pouty lips.
Iris: I only want REAL COOKIES!!
Me: Sweetie, those ARE real cookies. You helped me make them. Don't you remember?
Iris: (tearfully) I just want you to make me some (sniffle) real (sniffle) cookies.
So, yeah, I just spent the better part of this afternoon making five dozen cookies that I cannot convince my daughter to eat.
Anyone want them?