When You Can't Stand Your Husband's Favorite Thing

Please indulge me a minute as I begin this post with a ridiculous metaphor:

It's like sitting in a crowded auditorium in, let's say, Switzerland, watching two presidential candidates debate in German. They are arguing back and forth and the audience interjects applause or disapproval at appropriate times, and I get the feeling that even if I happened to speak German I would scarcely understand the policies over which they are debating anyway. Honestly, they could elect a St. Bernard to run the country for all I care.

Actually, a man debating a St. Bernard would make for a much more entertaining event. Certainly the St. Bernard would have wonderfully heroic stories of rescuing stranded skiers on the slopes.

I begin to imagine myself lost on a freezing Alpine mountain, overwhelmed by the looming threat of death, but looking quite stylish and not-at-all-fat in my svelte new ski suit (WHATEVER IT'S MY BLOG).

Oh look! It's me!

Suddenly, I hear the distant bark of a friendly St. Bernard who guides me to safety. My husband is so grateful that he promises to never ever take me to another Swiss presidential debate and we spend the rest of the trip feeding each other fondue in our mountain top chalet.

Actually, I'm not even sure the Swiss  have presidents. Or St. Bernards. The only things I know for sure about Switzerland is that they ski a lot and eat fondue. At least they do in my blog.

I have never visited Switzerland, but I have been to several sporting events with my husband and I have found them about as enthralling and as difficult to decipher as two middle aged persons arguing in German. 

Statue of famous baseball dude. I assume.

Usually when I accompany John to a sporting event there is always a moment in the car when he reaches over, grasps my hand and holds my gaze with a silent smile. I have decided he does this for one of two reasons: either he is temporarily overcome with his undying love for me or, more likely, he is offering up a silent prayer that I please, please not embarrass him with my complete and utter ignorance of all things athletic.

I like sports about as much as John likes art museums or musicals. Sometimes I feel terribly sorry that he didn't marry a wife who is more interested in sports. I bet a sporty wife would know all the appropriate times to yell things like "c'mon Ref!" or "where's the flag?!" A sporty wife would not ask him cringe-worthy questions at a basketball game like "how many more innings are there?" Or, at a hockey tournament, loudly inquire in front of his friends "does this mean they are going to do an instant death round?"  If you do not understand why those questions would make someone grimace then I love you and we should be best friends. 

If you know my husband at all then you know he is a die-hard fan of the Baltimore Orioles which, I have learned, is a professional baseball team. Even though we live a few states away, he manages to make it to a couple games a year and last summer he even managed to con me into following the Orioles to Chicago for our anniversary trip.

John has told me that he would one day like for us to retire to Baltimore. He has a grand vision of us buying an apartment downtown, becoming season ticket holders and following the O's around the country for away games. 

I told him I'd rather retire to Guantanamo Bay. Then I felt bad of course, because he really is passionate about this baseball team. I mean, he swears he loves me more, but when I suggested he get a tattoo that said "I love Anna more than baseball" he wasn't exactly on board. 

Which way back to the hotel??

He has also always wanted to visit Camden Yards (the Orioles' stadium) on opening day which, unlike the retirement plan, was something I could get behind. In fact, he referred to it as a "lifelong dream." Naturally, I encouraged him to make it happen because you must always encourage someone's lifelong dream. Consequently, one of my lifelong dreams is to take a Mediterranean luxury cruise. Just think of it, I mentioned to John, we can revel at the beauty of the Ancient Greek ruins! We can explore antiquities in Istanbul! We will tour the colorful Amalfi Coast with Alessandro, our personal Italian guide !! John looked at me incredulously and said, "But the O's don't play in the Mediterranean."

And that is how I ended up in Baltimore this past April on opening day with my husband and 2 boys. (Some amazing family members volunteered to keep our two-year-old and because of them our trip actually felt like a vacation, so THANK YOU, FAMILY.)

John assured me that opening day at a ballpark would be magical. He promised the excitement and electricity in the atmosphere would be unparalleled to any other game I had attended, and as we entered the gates, merging into a buzzing sea of orange and black, I thought he might be right. Maybe this was the day that the greatness of baseball would be revealed to me and I would finally fall in love with the game and OH MY GOSH ARE THOSE CRAB NACHOS?!?

Oh yes, I did.

My usual method of watching a sporting event generally goes something like this:

1. Focus on the game
2. Immediately begin thinking of something else
3. Try to clap when our team seems happy
4. Combat boredom by taking periodic trips to the bathroom
5. Cry happy tears of relief when it is all over

(Oddly, John employs a very similar coping strategy whenever I drag him to a musical theater performance.)

However, I was determined that on this day, on opening day, surrounded by my loves, I would be so enraptured by the magic of the game I would not lose focus for one single second. I was feeling quite optimistic when we settled into our seats. Sure, the temperature was hovering around 48 degrees and my fingers were starting to go numb, but I was ready to show my support for the team by scarfing down every last white-cheddar-and-lump-crab-covered kettle chip as the players took their places.

Actually, I couldn't help but wonder if the chill in the air was slowing down the players, who seemed to keep the game moving at an even slower pace than normal. We watched as the pitcher threw the first ball. We watched the batter not swing at the ball. The pitcher threw another ball. The batter did not swing. All of this throwing and not swinging took about 27 minutes. I'm sorry if this description is a little boring, but just imagine how it felt actually living through it.

Finally, they let the poor guy walk to first base and a new player stepped up to the plate for another round of throwing and not hitting and throwing and OH MY GOSH IS THAT A CRAB AND MAC-N-CHEESE HOT DOG?  

 It was. Apparently it is a legal requirement to include crab in every dish in Baltimore.

In fact, that very morning at a popular local diner I ordered the Crab Cake and Fried Green Tomato Eggs Benedict and declared that I had found the thing I am going to eat for brunch in heaven.

They even serve a Crabby Bloody Mary because IT'S THE LAW.

You know where else has a lot of crab? The Meditteranean. At the thought of a tropical paradise, I couldn't help but imagine strolling down an exotic Maltese beach, looking very stylish and not-at-all-fat in my colorful sarong and coordinating bathing suit. I am enraptured by the dazzling blue waters when my foot is abruptly and precariously caught between two jagged rocks and, horror of horrors, the tide is rising rapidly. Alessandro, our personal Italian guide, hears my screams and leaps into action, trying but failing to free my foot. All hope seems lost when suddenly, another figure emerges. "Get back, Alessandro! This is my wife WHOM I LOVE MORE THAN BASEBALL and I will be the one to save her from a watery grave!"

And right before I could concoct the perfect rescue scene, I was jolted from my daydream by a deafening roar from the crowd. Everyone was on their feet ecstatically cheering for our team and I had no idea why. I didn't even know which inning it was or how many outs there were or if we were even winning or not.

However, I was composed enough to snap a picture of my heroic husband hoisting our middle child in the air to celebrate the moment.

Forget famous baseball dude, they need a statue of these cute guys. 

And, it turns out, that moment was my favorite part of the entire trip.

It wasn't the electricity of the crowd or the phenomenal play that I will remember. I doubt I will ever appreciate the game the way he does, but in that moment I was filled with happiness and excitement simply because he was happy too.

Maybe we don't need to be passionate about all the same things, as long as we are passionate about each other.

Just then Jack leaned over and asked, "Did you see that double play, Mom? That was awesome."

I replied with a blank stare at first and then a smile slowly began to spread across my face as I realized what I just heard. Not the thing about the double play, whatever that is, but the fact that my 5-year-old is somehow more knowledgeable about baseball than I will probably ever be AND HE THINKS BASEBALL IS AWESOME.

This is huge.  There is at least one other person in our family with whom John can share his love of baseball. And it is not me! Our marriage is saved.

I reached over, gave Jack a big hug and said, "Yes, that was an awesome double play."

And, with a sigh and a smile, I let my mind wander where it pleased.

I should probably start planning that Mediterranean cruise.

Bye, Baltimore! I'm sure we'll be back!
Just not for retirement.

How to Make Brownies in 100 Easy Steps

On the morning of my birthday I was awoken by 3 little bright-eyed, sandy-haired sweeties climbing excitedly into my bed chanting, "Happy birthday, Mommy! Happy birthday!" We gave hugs and kisses and I honestly could not think of a way I'd rather wake up on my birthday.

Unfortunately, I was only able to bask in the birthday adoration for a minute or so because their well-wishes quickly turned to shouts of "Where's the cake?! When are we having cake?!? We want cake!!" as if cake somehow magically appears just because it's your birthday, which I suppose, if you're a kid, does seem to happen.

But when you are thirty-something, any and all cake responsibilities generally fall to you, birthday or not, which is how I found myself digging through the pantry that afternoon and, thankfully, pulling out a forgotten box of triple-chocolate brownie mix. It wasn't cake, but it would do in a pinch.

"Just 3 easy steps!" the box cheerfully claimed. According to the box, we could throw this mix together in 10 minutes and spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing while the oven did the rest.

The box lied.

I mean, I probably could have added water, eggs, and oil in 10 minutes, but when you have a couple of tiny sous chefs assisting the baking process, you just need a whole new set of directions.


So I wrote some. You're welcome, boxed brownie mix people.

And if you weren't craving brownies before, you definitely are now, amirite?

Jack and I belly laughed for 2 solid minutes over this photo.

How to Make Brownies in 100 Easy Steps

1. Put 2-year-old down for a nap. This is the most crucial step in the brownie making process.

2. Take boxed brownie mix out of the pantry.

3. Announce to children that it is time to make brownies.

4. Children pull a chair up to the counter.

5. Children fight for room on chair.

6. Explain to children that there are 5 more identical chairs around the kitchen table.

7. Three-year-old drags another chair to kitchen counter.

8. 3yo stubs his toe in the process of dragging chair.

9. Calmly put icepack on 3yo's barely visible booboo.

What? You don't dress like this when you bake?

10. Now it is time to begin. Take out a 13 x 9 pan.

11. 5-year-old sneezes directly into pan.

12. Wipe boogies out of pan. Try not to curse.

13. Spray Pam into pan, because the thought of ingesting mystery can chemicals is less troubling than the reality of spending 20 minutes scraping stuck brownie off the bottom of the pan. Ain't nobody got time for that.

14. 5-year-old wants a turn to spray.

15. 5yo accidentally sprays himself in eye.

16. 5yo screams as if his eyeball has popped out of his head and is rolling across the floor.

17. Place warm wash cloth over 5yo's eye. Practice those breathing exercises that you forgot to use during childbirth, but seem to come in handy while baking with children.

18. Assure 5yo that he will not go blind.

19. Approximately 30 minutes has now passed and it is FINALLY time to begin. Pour powdered brownie mix into a bowl.

20. Remind children not to touch brownie mix with their bare hands.

21. Again, remind children MORE LOUDLY that this is brownie mix in a bowl and NOT sand at the beach to bury their hands and squish between their fingers.

22. Yell "WHAT DID MOMMY SAY?!? NO, NO, NO, DO NOT SHAKE YOUR DIRTY HANDS OFF IN THE AIR!!"

23. Smile through clenched teeth as you wipe up brownie powder that has been spread all over the countertop and on the floor.

24. Continue to reassure 5yo (who has a slight obsession with going blind) that he will not go blind.

25. Allow 5yo to pour 1/3 cup of water into brownie mix.

26. 5yo spills half the water in the process.

27. Estimate how much water is still needed in the bowl and dump it in.

28. One child declares that he needs to use the restroom.

29. Do nothing. Wait for child to finish in the bathroom because if you so much as stir the batter while he is gone THE WORLD MIGHT END.

30. Help child wipe. Try not to be reminded of said batter.

31. Wash all the hands.

32. Reluctantly allow 3yo to add egg to mix even though you know it will end badly.

33. 3yo drops egg on floor.

34. Pretend you are the cheerful Bounty commercial mom who laughs off spills and cleans them up with ease in order to distract yourself from crying.

35. Second egg makes it into the bowl.

Holy egg yolk, Batman!

36. Fish out eggshells.

37. Proclaim that IT IS MOMMY'S TURN. MOMMY IS GOING TO ADD THE OIL.

38. Add 1/3 cup oil.

39. Children take turns stirring/slinging batter across the kitchen.

40. Children start to fight because 5yo is taking too long of a turn.

41. 3yo smacks 5yo in the eye.

42. Remove 3yo from the chair until he calms down.

43. 3yo does not calm down.

44. 3yo makes face at Mommy.

45. Send 3yo to time out.

46. Again, assure 5yo that he will not go blind.

47. 3yo screams bloody murder from time out.

48. 2yo is awoken by murderous screams.

49. Now 2yo also screams.

50. Sit down. Rest head between legs and take deep breaths so that there will be at least one person in the house not crying. Alternately, assume fetal position and hide in closet.

51. Announce "WHO WANTS TO WATCH A SHOW??"

52. Get 2yo out of crib.

53. 2yo does not want to watch show.

54. Pour brownie batter into pan with one hand.

55. Put brownies in 325 degree oven with one hand.

56. Clean up with one hand.

57. Dig box out of the trash to see how long to bake brownies. Also use one hand.

58-98.Tell children that no, the brownies are not ready yet. Repeat 40 times.

99. GIVE HUSBAND GIANT KISS WHEN HE WALKS IN THE DOOR WITH TAKEOUT FROM YOUR FAVORITE RESTAURANT.

100. Smile as if your heart will explode when children bring you a misshapen brownie with lit candle after dinner and loudly sing "HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR MOMMEEEEEEE!" in their sweet, squeaky little voices.

ENJOY.

"I know it's her birthday and all, but we gotta make sure there's enough brownies for us kids. There. Just barely big enough to hold a candle."  

There were even enough brownies to eat the next day.
(I'm almost positive this will be our Christmas card photo.)

Strawberry Picking at Ingram Farm

 Our new favorite spot for picking strawberries, Ingram Farm in High Point.

We've gone strawberry picking every spring since Jack could walk. It has inadvertently become an annual tradition that signals the rapid approach of summer, much like a Memorial Day cook-out or the sudden twilight appearance of lightning bugs or finally giving up on reading log homework. 

This month we've been busy with all the usual frantic happenings of May and by the time we found a day to go, we were very sad to discover that our usual strawberry farm had run clean out of strawberries.  

Luckily, I heard about another strawberry farm not too far away and thank goodness I did.

The new place was charming, quaint and picturesque. The old strawberry farm had strawberries; the new strawberry farm has everything it takes to make a kid blissfully happy in one afternoon. I couldn't help but imagine the conversation that they must have had before opening the farm (please note: farmers in my imagination are deeply southern and refer to each other as "Maw" and "Paw") :

"Alright, y'all, Maw and I have decided that we wanna create somethin' special at the farm that will bring people to us, somethin' real kid-friendly because folks just love makin' memries with their youngins. What are some things that kids go crazy for?" 

"Kids love diggin' in the dirt!"

"How about animals? They go crazy over anything they can pet."

"They love takin' just one bite of food and then throwin' the rest on the ground!"

"Kids love dessert. They'll do anything for dessert!"

"And ridin' in dangerous vehicles without seatbelts!"

"Alright, Paw, I got it! We'll turn our land into a STRAWBERRY FARM! We'll drive everyone to the fields in a bumpy TRACTOR with NO SEATBELTS. They can pick and eat and throw all the strawberries they want and when the tractor brings them back in there will be GOATS they can feed and a Dessert Barn where we will sell homemade STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM! Folks'll come from miles around!"

And that's how Ingram's Strawberry Farm came to be. Probably. 

I feel kinda bad for the old place. It didn't even stand a chance.

I consider the fact that her outfit coordinated with the strawberry patch to be my biggest accomplishment of the day.

At any rate, at Ingram's they have strawberries, tractor rides, goats and ice cream, which can only mean that we will never go back to the regular ol' strawberry farm ever again. At one point Jack even declared, "I didn't know strawberries could be this cool!"

I want to squish him.

The afternoon was so strawberry-tastic that we wrote a limerick when we came back home. And by "we" I mean me. Jack wrote a poem too, but his did not even rhyme.

Strawberry Picking, by Mommy

There once was a family quite merry
Who spent the day picking strawberries,
They plunked and they picked
And they chomped and they licked,
And they all ended up red as cherries.

They brought back home all they could carry,
"Now what can we do?" the kids queried,
So they made jam, cream and cakes
And drank strawberry shakes,
Til they begged, "DON'T MAKE US EAT MORE STRAWBERRIES!!"

Monster, by Jack

It got on their faces.

Juicy red blood.

They looked like monsters.

They tried to scare their parents.

The parents thought it was a real monster.

They hid behind the big pillow.

I am both proud and disturbed.

Strawberries! Goats! Ice Cream! WHATEVER SHALL WE DO FIRST?!?

Henry and Elise did not write poems, but they have since made me read The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry and the Big Hungry Bear so many times that they can now quote it, which kind of counts.  

The literary nerd in me secretly hopes that strawberry picking poems will be a new tradition they beg for each May, but regardless, we are ending the month in short sleeves with sun-kissed cheeks and a freezer full of strawberries, which can only mean that summer is as good as here. 

This is How I Know My Mom Loved Me

It is late. Like, 10:00pm late. Bedtime has taken 90 minutes, 17 sips of water, 8 kisses, 5 stories, 3 cover readjustments, 2 trips to the bathroom and one final threat to stay in their room or else. I am ready to relax, just for a little bit, before the whole crazy production starts all over again tomorrow.

There is only one thing between me and my DVR:

School lunches.

I don't know why school lunches are such a thorn in my side. They only take about 10 minutes to throw together, but it's like reaching the finish line of a marathon only to discover they've added a few more laps on the end. (At least, that's what I imagine it would be like, having run approximately 0 marathons myself.)

At the beginning of the year I tried to be really creative and health-conscious with the food I sent to school. My goal was to stock my son's BPA-free, eco-friendly bento lunch box with colorful representatives from the entire food pyramid. The vegetables always came back untouched, of course, but I kept sending them anyway because the experts say that if you keep presenting nutritious foods to your child they will eventually try them, but really it was because I wanted the teacher to think I was a good mom.

Now it is May and, well, I'm tired. I'm 5 episodes behind on "Grey's Anatomy" and I had to find out that McDreamy died through Facebook. I am feeling seriously uninformed on pop culture and school lunches are to blame.

Click here for school lunch envy.

While I cut the crusts off ham sandwiches and shake goldfish into baggies, I resentfully think about all the things I could be doing instead. I could be reading a book. I could be shoe shopping online. I could even be organizing the giant pile that has accumulated on the dining room table. Anything but this.

And then it hits me. My mom did this every school night. She had 3 kids, so she made lots of lunches every night for lots of years. I pause for a moment to do a few calculations in my head, as well as I can at 10:00pm. 

My mom made school lunches from 1987 until 2009. TWENTY-TWO YEARS of school lunches. I mean, she got a break on Fridays when they served those killer rectangle pizzas, but for the better part of TWENTY-TWO years she unwaveringly packed white bread sandwiches and Handi-Snacks and Bugles and Fruit Roll-Ups and Capri Suns. You know, the kind of cool stuff that every 90s kid hopes and prays is is in their lunch because she not only packed lunches, she packed lunches that were the envy of the cafeteria table. And she did it for TWENTY-TWO YEARS.

My mom even packed our lunches for us through high school. I remember some of my friends were in charge of packing their own lunches by then; their mothers had passed the task on to them either with the hopes of teaching their children some responsibility or because they were just tired of the whole thing, but probably a little of both. Not my mom. She always handed me a lunch on the way out the door. She didn't have to, but she did. I don't even know if I ever said thank you. 

TWENTY-TWO YEARS. I just can't get that number out of my head. She did this mundane, tedious task for her children every school night for twenty-two years. She also sat in thousands of carpool lines. She lost hundreds of hours of sleep soothing fussy babies, caring for sick kids and staying up late to sew Halloween costumes or dance recital outfits. She spent her hard-earned money on things for me, things I probably didn't need, but things she wanted me to have because she loved me that much.   

My mom and me in 1982. She is oblivious to the fact that she has 22 years of school lunches ahead of her.

Sometimes love isn't climbing the highest mountain or swimming the deepest sea. Love doesn't have to reach as far as the moon and back. Sometimes the best kind of love is found in the ordinary faithfulness of packing twenty-two years of school lunches. 

So thank you, Mom, for all of the daily sacrifices you made for me that I never seemed to notice. At the time it was impossible for me to comprehend the true depth and scope of motherhood, but I knew I felt cared for, I felt safe and I felt special. You gave me an incredible gift. Because of you, I wanted to be a mom too.

So I will cut off crusts and I will slice strawberries because my mom did it for me, and I want to take the blessings that she poured into my life and pass them on to my children.

And maybe, every once in a while, I will pack them a Capri Sun. Just like my mom did for me. ;)

"I love you 2,340 school lunches!"

You Can Choose Your Friends, but You Can't Choose Your Brother

They say you can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family.

I'm guessing "they" had siblings, whoever they were.

Who else but a sibling can bring a person to tears simply by breathing in their general direction? Or, as I heard this morning over breakfast: HENRY IS MOVING HIS LIPS AT ME! MAKE HIM STOP MOVING HIS LIPS AT ME!!

My boys fight. ALL THE TIME. It's not as though sometimes they fight and sometimes they play nice, like sometimes it rains and sometimes it's sunny. The arguing and picking and wrestling are entangled into every aspect of the day. Sometimes it's a full out downpour and sometimes it's just a drizzle while the sun is shining, but there are always rain clouds looming overhead. They fight AND they play nice. At the same time. 

Every game of Star Wars involves a lengthy argument over who gets to be Darth Vader. The shrieks of laughter turn to screams of agony when someone is "accidentally" poked in the eye with a light saber. Of course, the recovery is quick because they are having way too much fun to actually stop playing and besides THE DEATH STAR MUST BE DESTROYED and for some unknown reason, the way to accomplish this mission is to throw your brother off the couch.

In this picture they are actually arguing over who can jump the highest.

The constant bickering can be exhausting. It sometimes makes me wonder why we didn't have our three children 18 years apart, except I suppose having a baby at 63 would probably be frowned upon, so instead here we are trying to figure out the best way to deal with incessant screams of IT'S MY TURN TO PUSH THE STROLLER!!

But sometimes, sometimes the clouds part for a moment and I feel that magnificent sun so bright it warms me from the inside out.

One morning this week I heard panicked screams coming from the boys' room. "MOOOOOMEEEEE! COME LOOK AT HENRY'S EYE! HE LOOKS LIKE A MONSTER!!!"

As I walked in the room I heard Henry state very matter-of-factly, "I not a monster! I'm Henry!"

True enough, Henry's left eye was pink, puffy and almost swollen shut, a sure sign of an infection.

Henry was oblivious to the state of his eye, but Jack, who has always been the more dramatic of the two, was quite distraught. "Can you see, Henry? CAN YOU SEE??"

Henry nodded gleefully, thrilled to be the reason for such concern.

"Is his eye going to stay like that?? WILL HE LOOK LIKE A MONSTER FOREVER? WILL HE EVER BE ABLE TO SEE AGAIN???"

I reassured him that Henry would be just fine and he probably just had pink eye and I would take him to the doctor and no, the doctor would not give him a shot in the eye.

We dropped Jack off at school and headed to the doctor, but not before Jack told everyone that Henry had a pink eye, but not to worry because he was not going to be blind.

Henry's poor, disfigured eye must have weighed heavy on Jack's mind while he was at school because at pick-up he ran out eagerly waving a piece of construction paper. He hopped in the car and handed it to Henry. "I made this for you all by myself. It says 'I am sorry that you got a pink eye, Henry.' And I drew a giraffe, cause I know you like them."

Jack does not love writing. Jack does not like giraffes. Jack especially does not like to spend his free time drawing pictures of giraffes and writing to his brother.

Henry knows this. He clutched that paper, his good eye lit up and with a big grin he softly said, "I love you, Jack!"

They say you can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family.

My good friend Jesse says that your siblings are the friends God chooses for you.

I like that better.

My boys can choose their friends, but the Creator of All Things selected their little souls to travel through life together.

I'm so glad God gave them each other to care for and love. 

And occasionally throw off the couch. 

The Perfect Sugar Cookie...and my new favorite way to decorate them!

(Scroll down for recipe)

My kids love to bake cookies. And they LOVE to decorate them.

I love to bake cookies. And I DO NOT LOVE my kids to decorate them.

See, I have this little problem. It's called I WANT MY COOKIES TO LOOK GOOD. I hope for my cookies to look like they came from a professional bakery, while my children prefer them to resemble multi-colored blobs with tiny bites missing. I've tried to explain to them that snowflakes are not purple and that the Santa cookie will not be able to see anything with an entire bottle of nonpareils dumped on his face, but they don't seem to care.

I've tried to let it go because they have so much fun flinging icing all over the kitchen, but every time I watch them mix all the different colored sprinkles together in one bowl (which is always their go-to strategy), a small piece of me dies inside. This is something I'm working through.

So this past Easter I tried a new approach.

And I may never buy sprinkles again.

We had some family over for Easter. Jack and I made and iced the cookies ahead of time, so before lunch, I set out the cookies with a collection of FoodWriter edible color markers (purchased at Michael's). These markers are phenomenal. They are like if regular markers and a magical unicorn had a baby, and that baby could write on food. Note to self: come up with better analogy before posting

The packaging claimed they could also write on toast or cheese. At first I was like, "Why would you want to write on cheese?" And then I thought, "Why WOULDN'T you want to write on cheese!!" FOOD and ART. My TWO FAVORITE THINGS!

 While lunch finished cooking, the kids busied themselves with decorating the cookies. There was no mess and no soul-crushing sprinkle mixing, although Henry did manage to bite off a pair of bunny ears.

They were SO excited to be helping with the meal and they proudly showed off their masterpieces to anyone who wandered through the kitchen.

It kind of warmed my cold, perfectionist heart.

Ahh, a bunny that is the color of an actual bunny. This girl gets me.

How stinkin' adorable are these cookies??

My only note: Make sure the icing is completely hardened before coloring on the cookies to avoid "bleeding"
(scroll down for recipe)

 After lunch the kids got to eat their creations.

And they were delicious!

Ok, so maybe we'll give sprinkles another go after all.

***

Here is the sugar cookie recipe I use. It's my mom's recipe that she has tweaked over the years and it really is perfect.

Start with 2 sticks SOFTENED butter. Do not try to microwave the butter, just let it sit out at room temperature for an hour or so.

Add the rest of the "wet" ingredients: sugar, egg, vanilla, orange juice. Blend together.

Note: The assistance of a superhero is not required.

Now add the flour and a pinch of salt.

Blend again and you're done!

I like to wrap my dough in plastic wrap and let it sit in the fridge overnight.

When you're ready to bake, cut off a slice of dough and roll out on a floured surface.

Remember: the dough should be COLD and rolled THICK! After you cut out the first round of cookies, you can re-roll your slice of dough one or two more times, but the more you manipulate the dough, the harder it is to work with and the more finicky it becomes in the oven.

I was able to get 16 cookies out of this batch of dough.

Bake your cookies at 400 degrees for only 5 to 6 minutes. AS SOON as they start to turn brown on the edges, TAKE THEM OUT!

Now for the icing! Mix all ingredients together (powdered sugar, milk, lemon juice, light corn syrup) until the icing is the consistency of shampoo. The lemon juice cuts through the sweetness and gives the icing a delicious hint of tart. If you prefer not to use lemon juice, you can substitute extra milk instead.

The icing spreads beautifully on the cookie.

Also, do you know how hard it is to take a picture of yourself spreading icing on a cookie??
I had to get creative with this one.

Confession: Sometimes I get lazy and just dunk the whole cookie in the bowl of icing. I find it a lot easier to spread that way. 

Now you are ready to decorate!! (sprinkles optional, of course)

Perfect Sugar Cookies
I can usually make 15-20 cookies per batch of dough, however, it varies depending on the size of the cutter.

Blend Together:
1 cup butter, softened (2 sticks)
1 cup sugar
1 egg
1 tbsp vanilla
2 tbsp orange juice

Add:
2 1/2 cups all purpose unbleached flour
pinch of salt

Blend wet and dry ingredients together.

I like to roll the dough into a ball and cover in plastic wrap. Refrigerate for a few hours or overnight.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Sprinkle surface where you will roll out dough with flour. Sprinkle top of dough with flour and roll out dough to 3/8-inch thick (I use the width of my pinky as a guide, but if you have giant pinkies, that might not work for you. When it doubt, err on the side of thickness!) You may need to flip the dough around to roll it out. While rolling, check underneath the dough frequently to make sure it is not sticking (if it is, sprinkle with more flour). Cut into desired shape and place on a COOL baking sheet. Bake at 400 degrees until cookies are set and barely brown on edges, about 5 minutes. DO NOT OVERBAKE!

NOTE: In order for the cookies to keep their shape, the dough needs to be COLD. If you overwork the dough it will become too soft and the cookies will not hold their shape. You can even place your cut-out cookies on a plate or cookie sheet and pop the whole thing in the freezer for a few minutes to guarantee a perfect shape after baking!

Perfect Icing

Mix Together:
2 cups powdered sugar
2 tbsp milk
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp light corn syrup

The icing should be the same consistency as shampoo: thick, but still a little runny. If the icing is too thick, you can add more milk. If it is too runny, add a little more powdered sugar.

Add food coloring to tint the icing! Let cookies sit overnight to let the icing harden. 

A few other ways I've used this recipe:

Martha Stewart's Fireworks Cookies

Icing and sprinkles for a "MOPS" event

Christmas cookies, of course!