Lest you all think I walk around all day in a perfectly clean home smelling of cinnamon (see prior post), let me let you in on a little reality: In order to spend 15 minutes alone - that's 8 minutes snapping photos and 7 uploading them to my server (less time than it took to conceive these little stinkers) my children turned my kitchen into a made for cable tv movie, When Sugar Cookies Attack.
Under normal circumstances, I'd make them clean it up themselves.
In this case, the destruction was so vast, and so spread out, I knew that their "help" would only spread the calamity further. Like the Plague, or Paris Hilton's jail sentence, isolation was truly the best option.
And so, as much as I'd love cutesy wootsy little flour footprints all over my newly scrubbed wood floors, I opted to have them wash their hands and plop down on the couch.
My husband's only comment when he walked into the kitchen? "Making cookies?"
Oh, yeah. He's a smart one, that Rex.