VivaCity

I've touched in the past upon the subject of Ye Olde Boob Tube and its undermining influence in my household. I'd like to revisit that subject...

Sunday evening, I was temporarily possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver and decided to whip up a batch of wholesome goodness for my doting family in the form of cookies. I actually find baking to be very therapeutic, and I need all the therapy I can get these days.

My darling 3-yr-old comes wandering into the kitchen in the midst of said whirling dervish. Curiousity piqued, he begins the usual volley of questions...What's this, what's that, flour? I love flour, let me taste, the oven is hot? What's that thing, what's it for, can I use it, can I mix it, can I touch it, can I hold it? What's that, baking soda? I LOVE baking soda, please may I have some baking soda? I asked nicely.

Since I didn't have a free hand at the time to throw him out the nearest available window, I withstood this one-man firing squad rather well, and was under the impression it was winding down when it clicked.

Down came the peanut butter out of the cupboard. The inevitable..."Peanut butter? For...PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES??"

A gleam came into my darling sweet boy's eye, the like of which I had seen only on cartoon villains...The picture was made complete by much licking of chops and wringing of hands.

"Peanut butter cookies! What a great idea!" I wish I could convey the tone to you. As if I had just suggested some fantastic new method of world domination.

"Peanut butter cookies! Mu-hahahahahaha!!" I know you think I'm making this up, but I swear on Nip/Tuck I'm not exaggerating when I say dear Spencer threw back his head and laughed maniacally.

So the new rule is this...Alden watches his cartoons on his TV, and Spencer can watch as much light-hearted, upbeat kiddie fluff on the Disney channel as he wants. And I can once again sleep at night.