Sticky Sweet

"Mama, can I make it FASTER?" she pleaded.
"Just one click, Pollywog. ONE CLICK."

Famous last words, of course.

Her stubby little fingers bumped the electric mixer speed level all the way to 10, and suddenly a hundred thousand drops of wet cookie dough were launched into the deepest recesses of my kitchen, splattering banana pulp, buttermilk, and sugar onto every conceivable surface. There are probably still droplets whizzing through space, bravely venturing where no cookie batter has gone before, searching for a hospitable planet on which to kersplat where the tyrannical arm of the Clorox wipe cannot come to hurt or make afraid--there the dough will be blessed, AMEN.

I lunged through the heavy spray, risking life and limb, really, what with the sticky spray still shooting about, and managed to knock that switch back down to zero. The very second the whir of the mixer wound down into silence, well, that's the second we heard Daddy's key turning the lock. Bug looked at me and I looked at her and I swear to you the only rational thought that went through my head was, "Praises be, oh, praises be -- REINFORCEMENTS HAVE ARRIVED."

And here is what I thought about while I wiped and rinsed those cheeks and counters and cupboards and floor and innocent-bystander-brother who had been minding his own business 6 feet away with a tray full of Cheerios:

The cookies are worth the splatter. And so is she.