Christmas Fail

So I've caught that chest thing everybody's got, and it was fun, and then it turned into asthma, and that was even more fun, and my house has gotten increasingly unlivable in that time (which, you know, helps with the asthma) and so when I finally got on some medication (I should say, medications.  Inhaler, cough something or other, steroid for the lung damage, and antibiotics) and started being able to breathe again, I got this burst of energy, and shouted "Christmas!  It's here!  We must embrace it and let it into our hearts and souls and our home!"

I made Dave haul up all our Christmas Boxes from the basement, and Willow and I set about Christmasing.  We don't have a tree since we won't be here for the actual day (or the week preceeding it) so I eyed Dave's Monster Palm of Doom that is constantly threatening to take over half my house and showed it who's boss by draping it with twinkle lights and non-breakable ornaments.  Because if the tree can't hack it, I don't want my pretty glass balls to suffer, you know?

And we put out the Christmas Cat and the Christmas Santas and the Christmas Nutcracker and the Christmas Carousel that plays ear-piercing Christmas Songs and I dusted my hands and heaved a breath through my tired lungs and said "Welcome, Christmas!"

At which point, Willow said, "What's our next activity, Mommy?"

Now, normally my response to such a question would be something along the lines of "let's look at your dolls," or "let's throw this stuffed animal," but the burst of health had not yet worn off, and so instead, I said "Let's bake Christmas Cookies!  And let's do it using this nifty Christmas Cookie Press that has sat unopened in our Christmas Boxes lo these many years!"  Because I thought that sounded simpler than rolling out cookies.

It's not.  First of all, 3.5 cups of flour?  Really?  That's one crunchy cookie.  

There's Willow sneaking her fist into the batter while I went for more flour.  And once we had the thing mixed, the cookies did not want to press out.  Willow certainly couldn't do it, as I naively thought she could, so instead there I was pressing cookies all by myself, thinking this was an incredibly un-fun activity, when disaster struck:

I snapped the cookie press.  I think it was the steroids, yo.  And we had a lot of batter left.  With that much flour, and that much fussing about, it didn't want to roll out.  So we hammered it.

And we ended up cutting out cookies anyway.  And sprinkling them.  I'm not sure what Willow's doing with the sprinkles that Dave finds so disgusting, but I am sure that I don't really want to know.

They're....not bad.  I eat them.  But I tried to let Christmas into my heart and home, people, and it said "No, thanks."  Or, "I'll come, but only in the form of a leaning over palm tree and lame cookies."