So, all three kids were in college one year, and I thought, hey, why not get in the running for ‘Mother of the Year’ award and send my kids a Valentine’s Day care package. So I bought three plastic tubs with lids (think Costco yogurt-sized) that were covered with cheerful pink and red hearts. I debated filling them with store-bought candy, but I knew that a true Mother of the Year recipient would fill the tubs with cookies she had made herself.
So I rolled the dough, cut out the hearts, baked the cookies, and painstakingly frosted them in pink, red and white frosting before topping them off with little pink sprinkles.
Lastly, I decorated three of the cookies (one for each child) with an adorable face complete with cute little eyes and a happy smile.
I stacked the cookies in the plastic tubs, carefully layering the colors in a fun little pattern, and placed the smiley-heart cookie on top so it would be the first thing the kids saw when they opened the lid. In addition, each tub held thirteen cookies, an auspicious number. I then put the tubs in the downstairs freezer to await a trip to the post office.
As I cleaned up the kitchen, I rejoiced in the fact that although the kids had never complained about not receiving a care package from me, these cookies were going to be an excellent reminder of how much I loved them.
The next morning, as I was having my coffee, I thought again of how much fun the kids would have getting a care package from me. But as I was thinking about those frozen hearts of frosted goodness, their sweet siren song began wafting up the stairs.
Hmm. If I took one cookie from each tub, the tubs would still look really full, and a dozen is a very nice number. Maybe even better than thirteen.
So down I went to the freezer, opened a tub and carefully lifted out the smiley cookie, removed the cookie just below it, then replaced the smiley cookie back on top. I studied the tub. It still looked very fun and full and wonderful and no child would ever be the wiser. Then (and only because I had to be fair across the board) I repeated the same process with the other two tubs.
Morning coffee never tasted so divine. A hot drink and frozen sugar cookies – a match made in heaven.
And I was still on track to be Mother of the Year...
I behaved myself the rest of that day, but the next morning I again heard the siren song of the cookies.
I did my best to block it out. The children. First care package. Their joy. But my brain had other ideas. There would still be eleven cookies for each child. The cute smiley cookie would distract them. The tub would still look very full. So down the stairs I went.
I would like to say that this is where it ended. That the sugary siren song lost its appeal, or I imagined myself stepping onto the scale. But instead I came up with more rationalizations. I had, after all, gone for my usual run that morning so I had ‘pre-burned’ off all the calories contained in the cookies. And there would still be ten cookies in each tub. 80% full was still quite substantial, and I would put a bit of crumpled tissue on top of the cookies to help fill any void.
And the next day I remembered that I had some tissue with hearts on it, so it would look like I PLANNED to leave room in the tub for such a fun garnish. Nine cookies would still look like a goodly amount.
Unfortunately, my sugar addiction had revved up to full speed with the addition of all the sweet fuel, and I didn’t even wait 24 hours for my next fix. That evening I couldn’t stop thinking about those cookies and how good one would taste while I worked on the computer. As I started slinking down to the basement, the angel on my right shoulder chided, “How COULD you?!” and the devil on my left shoulder whispered, “Why WOULDN’T you?!” Sadly, the angel fell off on the third step down.
But now I had a dilemma. There were eight cookies left in each tub. Should I leave the tubs two-thirds full (with the FUN tissue paper filling the gap), or should I condense down to two tubs of twelve cookies each and give one child (the one with the least vigorous sweet tooth) something entirely different? But what if the children talked amongst themselves? Would the cookie-less child feel bad? And how did I handle the fact that one of the tubs would now have TWO smiley faced cookies and the other would have only one?
I decided that I would leave the three tubs as is, but pick up a few pieces of chocolate to place in the tubs along with the cookies. Problem solved!
And I had another plan to keep me in the running for Mother of the Year. I would move the tubs from the freezer in the basement to the far side of the garage. Surely this would deter my raiding of the tubs, since the garage floor was cold and wet and in full Minnesota winter mode. The cookies would be frozen but safe from my out-of-control sweet tooth.
Alas. It turns out that - if your winter boots are right there in the entryway - they are ridiculously easy to put on and thus help you cross the frozen tundra of the garage. And it also turns out that the distance to the far side of the garage is actually shorter than to the basement. So the cookie annihilation continued.
Seven cookies.
Six cookies.
Five.
Four.
Three.
On the seventh day I looked at the tubs.
"Well, now I have no choice. It’s simply out of my control. Obviously, I can’t send two or three cookies to each child. Especially in these giant tubs. That would look so silly. I will save only the smiley face cookie for each child. In fact, I won’t even send it to them. I will wait and present it to them when they are home on break. They will find such joy in receiving one amazing, home-made cookie from their mother. And if they ask why it’s a Valentine’s Day cookie I will tell them it’s merely in the shape of a heart because I love them so much."
As luck would have it, I never did have to explain the smiley-face cookies because the point was moot by the time the kids were home on break.
But I could have talked to them a lot about how the road to Mother of the Year - at least for some of us - is paved with good intentions.
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