Merry Christmas!

I don’t know how much anyone will be blogging over the holidays (including myself), so in case this is it until January,

Merry Christmas!

I hope you all, no matter what your beliefs, have a joyful and life-giving holiday.

Say what you mean or it’s cucumbers all the way

Arthur happens on me sneaking a private cookie. The tots have just had their (nutritious) snack in the next room. I was hoping to enjoy my less virtuous one in private.

“What are you eating, Mary?”

I hate this question. Kids do it all the time. He does not mean “what are you eating?” He knows what I’m eating. What he means is, “Can I have one, too?” Annoys the crap out of me, truly it does. You want something? Be direct!

(Plus, he just had a snack and I don’t want to share mine. What?!? I can’t hoard my cookies? I have to be noble every minute of my day? Did he share his grapes with me? No, he did not.)

Anyway… since it’s a non-sensical question, I figure I can give it a non-sensical answer. I’m not playing your game, kiddo, you’re playing mine.

I consider the cookie in my hand. “It’s a cucumber.”

“A cucumber?”

“Yup.”

Any other child would have given me a blank or perhaps an accusing stare, and wandered off in disgust. Arthur, however, has never yet let an opportunity to talk pass him by. I want to pretend that cookie’s a cucumber, he’ll go right there with me. Talk is talk, after all!

“What colour is it?”

More consideration of the Lemon Temptation I’m rapidly eliminating. “It’s yellow.”

“Some cucumbers can be yellow. After they’re ripe, they get yellow.” Arthur nods, an encouraging, we’re-in-this-together nod.

“So they do. You’re quite right.” I answer, brushing cucumber crumbs from my hands. Arthur pauses, then cheerfully trots off, his interest in conversation lasting only as long as the cucumber.

You know, some people have to hide a drinking habit, sip their martinis from cracked old coffee mugs. Some people have a lover, risk and reward, slip him out the back door as hubby comes in the front. Exotic and daring. Me, I’m hiding in the kitchen, trying to hide my cookie habit from three-year-olds.

…Sigh…