Yesterday was a dark, cold, damp, and rainy day. I thought it would be a good idea to have the boys help me make some cookies to lighten everyone's mood. The boys helped me carry the flour, shortening, brown sugar, raisins, oatmeal and all the other ingredients from the pantry to the kitchen counter. Then, as I hauled out the big silver mixing bowl, Joey climbed up on the chair, Tommy hopped up on the counter, and Ben sat on the floor playing with the measuring cups that we weren't using.
Joey dumped in the brown sugar, and Tommy dumped in the white sugar. Joey got to pour the vanilla in the bowl, and Tommy sprinkled in the baking powder. Both of them got to sift in a cup of flour, and then they took turns stirring. When all the ingredients were mixed together in the bowl I gave the boys a pile of raisins to munch while I plopped big spoonfuls of the cookie dough onto the baking sheets.
Just as I was finishing up the last sheet, Tommy, with his butt still on the counter right next to the baking sheets, let out a loud, rumbling fart. After all of my baking etiquette reminders to turn your head if you have to cough or sneeze, cover your mouth in the crook of your arm, wash your hands, I never thought I would have to tell the boys not to fart on the counter when the cookies are mere inches away. Now, why hadn't I thought of that? Living in a house of all boys I should have known that it would come up eventually.
I looked up at him and said, "Thomas John! What do you say?"
Without looking up from his raisins he answered, "Scuse me."
"That was icky, Tommy. Sit your butt on the stool, please." I scolded.
Tommy slid off the counter onto the stool, continued to eat his raisins, and said, "Sawry I fahted on ohs cookies, mom."