Whoever said, "Many hands make light work" never allowed their two preschoolers to help make cookies. I'm just sayin'.
The flour was poured into the mixing bowl. And some got on the table. The various other dry ingredients went into the bowl. Most of which flew out again and onto sweet little hands. And then promptly onto the floor.
The butter and sugar were creamed. And little hands flew over even smaller ears. They aren't too keen on the hand mixer, you see. And as a side note, the hand mixer isn't too keen on mommy. It was asked to do the job of a large stand mixer with a paddle attachment. Just like last year. And the year before that. Aaaaaaand the year before that. A-hem.
And then came the questions. "Is it time to decorate them yet, mommy?" "Can I eat some of the dough, mommy?" "MoooOOmmmy! Can I lick the silver thingies (aka beaters)?" "Why do we put the dough in the fridge?" "Is it time to ice the cookies yet mommy?" "Is the dough done resting, mommy?" "Can we take it out now, mommy?" "When do we get to decorate them mommy?" "MooOOoommy!"
The questions were accompanied by much hopping from one foot to the other. And many sighs while considering a name change. I'll leave it to you to figure out who did what.
Then when the very long wait was over - and believe me when I tell you that it was a longer wait for mommy than it was for the little ones - the dough was ready to be removed from the fridge and rolled out. Little feet pitter-patted their way to the sink for more hand washing and much discussion of who was to complete their ablutions first. (Read as: much bickering and pushing and shoving to see who'd get to the soap dispenser before their sibling)
In the mean time, mommy snuck in a first few tentative rolls with the rolling pin. Her children were not fooled and told her so. Emphatically. And loudly. I am of the opinion that children use their outside voices for every situation until they become preteens and then they mutter everything so as not to be heard at all. Just sayin'.
But, I digress.
So the children were allowed a few rolls of the pin while mommy watched and felt like she was rolling the dice. For you see, this was a borrowed rolling pin. From a very precious someone of the great grand-maternal persuasion. Someone who would know if a scratch or dent or breathing near it occurred. And then she'd proceed to wag her head and do a little muttering of her own. Not that she's particular or anything.
Cookie cutters were employed in numerous configurations without regard to edges, to dough thickness, sibling fingers or mommy's patience. Into the oven they went. More waiting. Only THIS time noses were pressed against the oven window. Cookies were cooled while dinner was made and consumed at an alarming rate.
And then It Was Time.
More hand washing, more bickering (by now The Cruise Director is involved, you see) and even more jockeying for positions at the table. Decorating ensued. A little green icing here. More hand washing there - because Whirling Dervish decided that no decorating session is complete until he scratches his head and fiddles with his socks one or twelve times. A lot of red sprinkles there. Yellow food coloring on the walls . . . a bit of finger licking. And lots and lots of dirty dishes.
Here is the result of a long day's journey into night:
Themmhmmgsimmon nimmonshmhgahmm baknmmihmmmn yermmhmmunn. (Translation of mommy mutterings: Thank goodness the baking is done for another year.)