By Heather O.
I kept calling her throughout the afternoon with my questions. How big are you supposed to roll them? How long did you bake them? Are they supposed to be brown on the top, or just the edges? On and on I peppered her with my questions, until at last, I took out the final batch, with about 10 minutes to go before we all had to leave. I got the kids changed, asked my husband to go look for festive Santa hats, and scooted upstairs to put on some make-up. My daughter toddled around my feet as I got myself ready, and I came downstairs, ready to gather my kids and my cookies and everything else I was supposed to bring to the party, and found this:
In case you can’t see it, this is a picture of cookies strewn about the floor, compliments of this:
In case you can’t tell, this is a mangy mutt who inhabits my home, but who almost lost her life last night as I chased her out of the kitchen, screaming, the damning evidence of powdered sugar all over her thieving little snout.
In my hysterical state, I looked up at DH in desperation and said, “I think there’s about a dozen on the floor, and there’s still a dozen cooling. Can we just brush them off and take them anyway?”
I could tell that DH was doing his very, very, VERY best not to burst out laughing, (as he values his life as well) but to his credit, he kept a completely straight face as he said, “No. I don’t think we can, in good conscience, serve members of our ward cookies that may or may not have been licked by our dog.”
We picked up a pecan pie at the store on the way to the party. (sigh)
Things went along okay after that, until the party was almost over.
My son asked if he could get more dessert, and he was taking a long time getting back. I didn’t think much of it.
Until the fire alarm went off.
My first thought, of course, was of Dwight Shrute, who, when the members of his office take their time about evacuating, screams at them, “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”
My second thought was of my missing son. (Don’t ask me why my priorities listed The Office first. Minds do crazy things in emergencies. It’s a documented fact. Don’t judge me.)
As I made my way down the hall toward the pack of kids, not one, but TWO moms sympathetically said, “It was just an accident. Don’t be mad at him.”
Me?Mad? Mad at who?
Oh. Right. Because the only person that I would be mad at would be my 6 year old son, and the only reason I would be mad is if HE SET OFF THE FREAKIN’ FIRE ALARM!
Which, if you want to get technical, he did. But, as he explained in between tearful sobs, it was an accident. Oh, well, okay. That’s not a big deal. Except that the “accident” involved accidentally AIMING at the fire alarm because the kids were playing basketball. The fire alarm was the hoop.
See? Totally couldn’t help it. I mean, aren’t all basketball games centered around fire alarms?
It’s only because of my mild mannered husband that two occupants of my household didn’t lose a limb or two last night. And if it wasn’t below freezing last night, I might have considered sending my son to sleep in the garage with the dog.
If I’m honest, I have to admit that part of my anger towards my son was the embarrassment of it being MY kid who disrupted the party and caused the fire department to show up. I mean, who is that kid’s mother, anyhow? Is there no parental supervision? Forget about the fire alarm–how on earth did the child get a hold of a basketball in the first place, and how long had he been playing in the foyer of a supposedly sacred space?
Sadly, these are questions I do not have answers to. Because I’m lame.
J has been contrite, obedient, and quiet this morning, except during the conversation where I explained that there would be no computer time today, he would have to write a letter to the bishop explaining what really happened, that it wasn’t an accident, etc, and that I would be contacting a woman I know who works for the fire department to see if there are some jobs he can do at the station to make up for needlessly taking up the fire fighters’ time. Big fat tears leaked out of his blue eyes, but he nodded as I told him what was expected of him, then launched himself into my lap and cried openly.
I patted and stroked his back, kissed his head, and told him how much I loved him and how happy I am that Heavenly Father sent him to be in our family, and how much I like being his mom. Then I eased his guilt by telling him a story about when Dh set off the fire alarm when he was a kid. J perked up at that, and later told DH, “Mommy told me how you set off the fire alarm once. I guess that’s where I get my talent for setting off fire alarms.”
Well, at least he’s not blaming me. That’s something.
P.S. I didn’t take the pictures. I was too mad at my dog to think about something as mundane as photography. DH took them as he cleaned up the cookies, although, to be honest, I really have no idea when he managed to do that. I didn’t know he did it until I was flipping through the pictures he took at the party, and I spat out, ‘Why did you take a picture of this?” He shrugged and said, “I thought you’d want to blog about it. Blogging’s good for you–you can get it all out that way.”
My husband knows me very, very well.
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