There is quite a lot I could and should be doing right now, but this morning and much of this afternoon, already, it has become apparent that I seriously need more down time.
I'll start making cookies later.
My famous sugar cookies and gingerbread mini-men get doled out to neighbors and random people like teachers and bus drivers, and brought to my family up north every year. This year we're not heading north, and I do realize that if I make them in the next 36 hours, they'll be late for christmas if I send them, but I'm planning to do so anyway. Heck, I bought the tin.
S is pleading Santa's case for chocolate chip this year, insisting repeatedly that chocolate chip cookies are Santa's favorite. We've always given Santa the sugar and ginger cookies. Trust me, Santa loves those.
S has been informed in the past six months about the whole Santa business that shall go undivulged here in case my savvy toddler goes archival in the next five years or so. But he insists he still wants to believe even though he knows the deal.
He's eleven after all, and the magic of Christmas is in the believing, regardless. I believe, do you?
Do not be fooled into believing that I am a domestic goddess by this post, however. I mean, I am domestic, and I am a goddess, but by no means do I have a spotless house and an A-frame skirt covered by a contrapuntally colored apron. I just love to bake cookies.
Although, yesterday I handed the recipe book to K to make snickerdoodles for his Chorus class and Biology's 'spontaneous cultural gatherings' as holiday parties are forbidden at his high school. Don't you love how his teachers are teaching him to be subversive? I do. I also love that I passed off baking for his classes to him.