They Weren’t Really Cookies

Last night, a Dreadful Thing happened. As Jessica and I were preparing to go to bed, we were helping the boys, Nicholas and Timothy, also get ready for bed. We found Timothy in a state of, um… Shall we say, disaster? In the interest of Internet safety, I hereafter refer to the disaster as ‘cookies’ . We found that Timothy’s pants had fallen down, his brief had given up the good fight, and there were cookies everywhere. Jessica found a cookie on the floor. She began to shout, “What should I do? What should I do? Tell me what to do!”

I myself was briefly paralyzed as I surveyed the scene. I had a wild impulse to laugh. We realized the cookies had gotten out of hand. Tim would need to be bathed. We carefully helped him up the stairs, no mean feat considering the state of his pants, brief and the imminent threat of cookie containment issues. Once in the bathroom, we were , initially,somewhat at a loss as to how to begin, but eventually, and not without minor cookie contretemps, we managed to disrobe Tim, and insert him into the bathtub for a shower. This may be the appropriate moment to remind you how much Timothy HATES showers. I’m absolutely using hate correctly here. I’m not exaggerating, nor being overly dramatic. He abhors, detests, and is categorically against them with every fiber of his being. And, under normal bathing circumstances, I fill a tub and pop him in. The cookie situation I have just described to you is not normal. I cannot in good conscience, “pop him into a tub”. He must be hosed off. Cookies are everywhere. Take a moment and imagine me wrestling a medium sized, wet, naked, supremely unhappy, cookie covered, thirteen year old person with the mind of a toddler. Thankfully, his father came to my rescue and held him in whilst I worked the hand held shower attachment and soap. Perhaps you are wondering where Jessica was during this adventure?

Dear, brave Jessica was on what we like to call a “cookie hunt”.  An adventure all of it’s own, where a person systematically searches each room of our home for “cookies”. After a bit, Jessica and I met at the washing machine to deposit the cookie casualties.

Jessica: “That was bad, right?”
Me: “Yes. Maybe even makes the top ten worst cookie catastrophes.
Jessica: So, like a 7, you think?
Me: A solid 7 on the cookie-o-meter.
Jessica: WHY DO WE EVEN *HAVE* THAT METER? (remember Isme in The Emporer’s New Groove?)
Me: *breaks down, laughs hysterically *

Blair came downstairs with a clean, jammied, now ready for bed Timothy and wanted to know why we were laughing. We told him. Ten minutes later, he came back with this:



And that, my friends, is how we wrapped up our weekend.

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