Tough Cookie

Apparently, Lisa and J.T. bake cookies when he sees her each week. Lately, she sends him home to me with some leftovers, to pack in his lunchbox or enjoy with his friends. Yesterday, he came home with giant cookies they had made ("it's as big as my head, Mama," he told me) to share with his friend M, who was coming over for a sleepover.

Once she's gone, J.T. doesn't want the cookies. I don't eat the cookies. Their very presence in my house leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Last night, J.T. and M did have a giant cookie, though they eventually decided that they wanted some "real food" and so the remains of the cookie were left on the counter while I made the boys some hot dogs. And I couldn't help but think that it was a perfect metaphorical representation of my life: I provide the real food and the real parenting. I do it every day. And for a few hours each week, Captain Fun is good for some cookies and some fluff.

I'll take my job any time.