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cookie monster

Me, to my stomach, while Vivi was in school yesterday: I am NOT going to eat my three-year-old’s delicious cookie that is shaped like a cat, coated in dark chocolate, and delicately flavored with a hint of amaretto. I’m just telling you that right now, stomach. I will NOT eat her cookie.It’s a good thing, too, because as soon as she got home, Vivi pronounced that it was now to be cookie-eating time, not having forgotten the score she made the previous day from Grandma and Grandpa. I handed over the cookie, glanced down at my computer for a millisecond, and looked back up to see this face.
And it was so worth the sacrifice. I just wish I had changed her out of her picture-day clothes first.

I might just imbibe in my own treat tonight, a little of my giant vat of Bailey’s Irish Cream that Nate brought home for me. A present, he said, for being such a great daughter-in-law while his parents were visiting. Secretly I don’t see what the big deal is, since they are a delight to be around, insisting on paying for everything including our mountainous score from the consignment half-price bonanza and siding with me on all marital squabbles. What’s not to love? But knowing what I do about looking at gift horses’ mouths, I will gladly accept my tasty reward.

Cheers and many xoxoxos!

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