This weekend my little boy had a birthday. The anticipation was intense. When the big day finally arrived, he couldn’t stop chattering, “I’m so excited! This is the best day of my life!”

His real birthday was Monday, but we celebrated Sunday because of scheduling issues. When I asked him what he wanted for his birthday meal, he said, “Fruit and broccoli soup,” which sounded so ordinary that I felt sorry for him and coaxed him in the direction of something a little more celebratory.

He ended up choosing “that cereal that has the shapes and the rainbows” (Lucky Charms) for breakfast, spicy popcorn to share with his Sunday School class (“spicy instead of cheesy because then the girls won’t like it”), subs with two meats, “salad” (lettuce) and tomatoes, and “long rolls like at the restaurant,” lots of fruit, root beer, and a tornado cake.

I was not enthused about the tornado cake. I made a chocolate sheet cake as per his instructions, iced it once (with the tail end of a long-ago batch of icing, see how much I cared?) and then again with some fresh chocolate frosting. We fashioned a tornado out of straws, a lime, and tinfoil. I dabbed it with icing and plunged it into the cake. It promptly fell over. Unfazed, he propped it up with toothpicks and then proceeded to stud the ‘nado with the heads and arms of Lego people and press wrecked toy cars into the top of the cake.

In my opinion, it was a true-blue disaster. In his opinion, it was a magical work of art. For long swaths of time, he’d sit by his cake, giggling, tweaking, and just looking. I bounced around between thinking the cake was the most pathetic sight ever to feeling guilty because I didn’t even try to being proud of myself for letting my kid create the cake that he wanted. And then we ate it and it was gone, the end.

Monday, he was off school work and dish-washing duty, just to stretch out the partying a bit. As requested, I made broccoli soup for supper and served it with crackers. But he kindly informed me that the soup wasn’t quite right and he really wanted “those crackers with the holes in them” (Saltines) and not Wheat Thins, so it wasn’t exactly a roaring success.

He also told me, all matter-of-fact like, that we should’ve given him more gifts. My first impulse was to argue with him because he did get a lot, and my second impulse was to chide him because spoiled kid, but I did neither. I just looked at him, studying his little wiry-boy frame and his messy mop of hair and his fretful blue eyes. For the first time, maybe, he was realizing that birthdays aren’t pure magic. They hold disappointments, too. My baby is indeed growing up.

I first made these chocolate cookies while we were in Guatemala. I didn’t exactly like them—too sandy or something. But I figured the unappealing element was due to my ingredient/baking limitations and not to a bad recipe. So last week I tried again. I’m glad I did.

This is an oil-based cookie recipe, so no beaters and no creaming, yay. Just stir everything together with a wooden spoon and you’ve got dough as dark as midnight. I added some mini mint chips to the recipe which transformed them into something rather sensational. Mint Chip ice cream lovers, this is the cookie for you.

There’s another batch of dough sitting in the fridge right now. This time around I added some cocoa nibs along with the mint chips. I plan to bake up a tray right after lunch to go with my afternoon coffee. I’ll let you know if the nibs were a smart idea or not.

Chocolate Mint Chip Cookies
Adapted from Dinner with Julie

2 eggs, beaten
1 cup sugar
1 cup brown sugar
½ cup oil
1 tablespoon vanilla
1½ cups flour
1 cup cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup mini mint chips

In a mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugars, oil, and vanilla. Add the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt, and stir to combine. The dough will be stiff. Stir in the mint chips. Let the dough rest for ten minutes (or, if not ready to bake, cover and refrigerate).

Scoop the dough (I make mine the size of ping-pong balls) onto greased cookie sheets and bake at 375 degrees for 7-10 minutes. I like mine to be soft and chewy, so I take them out when they are puffed and cracked but still wet-ish. I always end up wishing I had taken them out even sooner.

Update: The cookies are better without the cocoa nibs. KISS. (Keep it simple, stupid.)

During the night it poured rain. This morning the rain turned to sleet, snapping sharply against the darkened windows. Then it switched to snow, for more variety. Now it’s just flurries, but with the sun shining warmly on the whole soppy mess.

Like the weather, I’m off-kilter. Not sad or blue or irritable, but not settled and contented, either. I feel itchy in my skin. I want to write but it requires too much focus. I blame my lack of focus on the children and housework, but that’s not exactly fair. I make time for what’s important. I could have gotten up at five to write if I really wanted to.

This afternoon I was sitting at my desk when the phone rang. It was a girlfriend calling the Jennifer Knows Everything About Parenting Teenagers (Ha-Ha) Hotline. We talked about wily, overconfident boys and their astounding ability to foist responsibility on anyone but themselves, and I passed her a virtual needle and said, Burst his damn bubble (but not in those exact words), and then I said, “Hey, I gotta go for a minute—can I call you right back?” because the melting snow was sparkling and the snow was falling and I just had to take some pictures.

The deck furniture is scattered all over the porch. Every time I look out the window, I feel like I’m seeing an echo of my mind. Haphazard. Cluttered. Idle.

There won’t be a quotidian today. Supper will be soup and crackers, and it will be at bedtime instead of a decent hour because of my daughter’s choir rehearsal. I’ll probably knit when I should be taking notes for my next post, or maybe I’ll read a magazine instead of the book that I already started. I’ll let the fire go out and then shiver because it’s cold. I’ll stress about the busy weekend and wish for things I can’t have and make chocolate cookies even though a grapefruit is all the snack I need.

Is it possible to be traumatized by the weather?

This was the thought that crossed my mind the other day. I think the answer might be yes. I enjoy winter, but only up to a point. After that point (January 31, perhaps?) the bitter temps, the snow and ice, the mud, and the short days start to feel less like sweet love pats and more like harassment. I am worn down and battered. One more soggy mitten and I’ll scream.

Our neighbors’ sheep are starting to lamb. Lambs. Now there’s a cheerful thought. Lambs mean Easter and daffodils, yellow-green grass and seedlings, asparagus and chocolate peanut butter eggs, and bare feet and warm dirt.

Not just yet, I know, but soon.

‘Tis lambing season. We’re going to make it.