Behold, I made advent cookies.
And promptly burnt them.
Which is why I’m not on Pinterest. My life just rarely measures up to those shiny pictures of domestic perfection, and there’s not much market for sharing your baking fails.
BUT. I filled the Advent tree. In a haphazard sort of fashion.
“Quick, help me hide these cookie cutters,” I hissed at the husband, who is so accustomed to strange instructions that he barely flinched.
“Then write a cryptic note and shove it in Day 4 while they’re not looking,” I whispered. The penny dropped and he saw where this was leading.
But suddenly two small faces appeared at the kitchen door, smelling trouble.
“You’re hiding something,” the designated spokesman said, accusingly.
“Yes,” I said, decisively, quickly reasoning that lying would be of little help to me now.
“So scoot,” I added, authoritatively. I braced myself for their refusals and a swift end to my Advent efforts but to my complete surprise, they played along, and disappeared from view.
There followed an impromptu game of hunt-the-cookie-cutters, with us calling out instructions from the door. “Warm. Hotter. Scorching,” we cried while they ransacked the room, until the youngest spun on his heels and bemoaned “I don’t know WHAT you’re talking about.
Fortunately at that very moment he tripped over the At-At, and the hidden cookie cutters were dislodged from their cunning hiding place. I knew Dada would be good at this.
And I didn’t even burn them all, so it wasn’t a complete disaster.
Clearly neither child is exactly enamoured with ginger biscuits, but Dada is impressed.
And sometimes you’ve just got to take whatever praise you can.