"You're not supposed to put the sprinkles on like that! Mom!"
"I can make the cookies how I want! Mom!"
"Don't you yell at my sister! Mommy!"
"Mom, make them stop yelling!"
Very cautiously, I stand in the kitchen doorway, waiting to see if Monica needs help, our kids looking at her to fix the problems of their world.
"Erica," she says patiently, "Jack can decorate his cookies any way he wants, it's fine."
Erica's mouth drops open in shock. "But they look dumb."
"They do not!" Jack exclaims defensively, and Monica puts a hand on his shoulder.
"If you don't like them, you don't have to eat them," she answer, doing a great job of remaining neutral, years of a experience having taught the both of us that not responding to the kids' outbursts is always the best, safest way to go.
"Good," Erica says, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't want his ugly cookies." Jack makes a face and goes back to decorating, but even from here I can see that his eyes are shiny, his twin's words stinging more than he'd like.
"One more time, Erica, and you're out," Monica says calmly; our daughter's mouth opens, but Monica cuts her off. "I mean it. You'll be in bed, and you won't get to have any of the cookies at all. Do you understand?"
"She didn't mean it, Mommy," a little voice says, hidden by the counter.
Monica reaches down, probably stroking her hair. "You mind your own business, butter bean," she tells her gently.
William walks hesitantly over to his brother; even though they're more than a year apart, William is nearly the same height as his older sibling. "Jack, will you help me with my cookies?"
He looks at his little brother, who kindly says nothing about the tears, and Jack gives him a small smile. "Sure, Liam."
William the Peacekeeper. Always has been. He hates seeing the twins fight, which seems to be happening more and more lately. He's always been able to subtly break it up, asking one of them for help with a toy or a game, or making a joke to cut the tension…which he may or may not have gotten from me. It usually does the trick, though, and everyone will be back to normal within a few minutes.
With an exhausted sigh, Monica grabs the little one under her arms and sits her on the counter so she can be part of the action. My poor wife; with the holidays upon us, she's crazy busy at work, pulling longer hours than normal, then coming home and spending as much time as she can with the kids instead of sleeping the way she ought to. I know she doesn't want them to think she's an absentee parent, and she hates to miss a moment with them, but she exists on just a few hours of sleep most nights and excessive amounts of caffeine. It know it's all about trying to build a better life for our kids, but even Monica has a point of diminishing returns. Plus with all the kids home on winter break and cooped up in close quarters, tensions, unfortunately, can run high.
I walk into the kitchen, stroking my girls' hair as I walk by them, both of them grinning up at me, before I reach Monica, wrapping my arms around her from behind. "Hi, baby," I whisper in her ear, and I feel her body relax. She turns her head and kisses my cheek, rubbing her nose against me for a moment.
"Hi," she answers softly. She turns and slides her arms around my waist, resting her head against my shoulder. "You're home."
I see the twins making barf faces at our affection toward each other and roll my eyes, swatting at them playfully. "Yep," I answer. "Two whole weeks of nothing but family time." I had enough vacation time left this year to be able to take off the same amount of time as the kids. I'm sure they'll get sick of having me around constantly, but I'm kind of excited about spending so much time with them. "How was work today?"
"Busy," she answers immediately, sighing into my neck. "I think literally everyone had their holiday parties today. Not that big of a deal for the ones who called in orders ahead of time, but we had some stragglers, and they all needed three dozen cookies and a cake at the last minute."
I chuckle a little, knowing that even though she complains about it, she still loves the challenge. "And…"
"And not one burnt cookie, not one broken crust, and not one fallen soufflé."
"Naturally," I answer, stepping back from her, keeping my hands on her waist. "That's because you're Wonder Woman."
"Woman Woman!" the girls automatically chorus, both of them getting a kick lately out of the old TV show.
I grin at my wife, leaning down to kiss her. Jack immediately pipes up. "Guys, c'mon. I'm gonna lose my lunch."
"You know, Jack," I say, slinging my arm over Monica's shoulders. "One day, you're going to fall head over heels in love with someone and you'll get why your parents act so mushy all the time."
He makes a face at me. "Girls are kinda gross, Dad."
Erica lifts an eyebrow at him but says nothing—truthfully, she has the ability to out-gross her brother just about any day of the week. Makes me a little proud, actually.
Monica reaches over and grabs his face, pulling him in to kiss his forehead. "You won't always think so."
He ducks away from her, his face turning pink. "Well, all the girls I know are gross."
"I like girls," William says, smiling up at us, red icing at the corners of his mouth.
"Easy there, Cassanova," Monica says, pulling him against her side. "You're not allowed to like anybody until you get to high school."
Erica looks up at me, horrified, and I can't help but chuckle as I stand behind her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. "No way. Dad, she's making that up, right?"
I shake my head, leaning down to place a kiss on top of her soft blonde hair. "Don't look at me. If it were up to me, you and your sister would never be allowed to date."
"Daaad!"
I look up at Monica and wink, and she smiles at me fondly. No one will ever be good enough for my girls; I've never made any secret of that. If I could, I'd lock them in a convent to keep them safe and unharmed forever. I used to think that was an exaggeration by overprotective fathers on TV shows, but now that I am an overprotective father…well, I can see the merit.
"No crushes until high school," Monica answers, stepping around the kitchen island to help the boys with their cookies. "You can't like anybody until then."
"I like you, Daddy." I look down at my little pipsqueak, who grins back at me broadly, gaps on her top and bottom rows of teeth, the rest of her teeth tinted with various shades of icing.
"You're allowed to like your old Dad," I answer, leaning over to give her a kiss. "But no one else."
Erica gives me a disbelieving look and goes back to her cookies. "I don't think you can tell yourself not to like someone, Dad," she tells me, and I'm amazed once again at how unintentionally wise kids can be. Monica just looks up at me and grins.
"Boy, is that the truth," she answers, and I wink at her again.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jack asks, and I reach across the counter to ruffle his hair.
"I'll tell you when you're older."
The twins groan and roll their eyes at the same time. "That's what you always say!" they answer in tandem, and Monica chuckles, turning back to the messy counter in front of her.
"Then you ought to be used to it by now," she answers.
"When are we gonna be old enough?" Jack asks as he smoothes out the hair that I've mussed.
"We'll let you know," I answer. If looks could kill, the twins would be seriously maiming me right now, but Monica and I have found that torturing our kids in these simple, harmless ways is our own form of entertainment. "So, do you need any help?"
"How about you take the girls and I take the boys?" Monica answers, and though she has dark circles forming under her eyes, her expression is happy, cheerful, and I know that there's no where she'd rather be right now.
We also try not to keep the kids too separated from each other, but sometimes it just works for the best that way. When the little one rushes the big one's defense, and when the twins start in on each other, it's always wisest to have a boys side and a girls side. Monica tries to keep me from being solely in charge of the girls too often—I'm a big pushover when it comes to them and we all know it. It's not always a problem—and when Monica comes home to find me getting my nails painted and my hair curled, it's a great source of entertainment for her. But I tend to let them get away with murder.
Unfortunately, I'm not much better with the boys.
If I didn't love all of them so damn much, I think Monica would have traded me in for a more efficient model years ago.
They love their mom, though. There's something about a mom that I just don't have, and there have always been certain aches and pains that only Monica can fix, and I imagine there always will be. Even just a few minutes ago, they were all begging for her to be on their side. If I'd been the only one in the kitchen with them when that happened, their response would have been, "I'm telling Mom!"
Together, we make a pretty good team, though. She's really good at direct discipline, and I'm good at doing it stealthily. Considering I never thought I'd be able to pull it off at all, I'll settle for the kids taking me seriously, period. I know I couldn't do it without her, though.
"All right, what've we got here?" I ask, poking at a few of the brightly, festively decorated shapes in front of me.
"Cookies, Daddy," the little one giggles, then holds out a large, blue…blob to me. "Here."
"Well, thanks, sweetie pie," I tell her, kissing her forehead. "This looks great." It looks anything but.
"That's a cool looking dreidel, butt munch," Erica says, saving me from trying to puzzle it out, and Monica looks up at me, waiting for me to scold my daughter.
Before I can, though, her sister's tiny voice says, "Thanks, little butt."
"No names, please," I tell them, hoping to nip it in the bud before it escalates. Monica goes back to the boys and I pull my phone out of my pocket. "I think we need some festive tunes, don't you?"
William bounces over to me and takes the phone out of my hand, scrolling through the music app until he finds the holiday playlist we've been collaboratively building for years. He plunks it in the speakers and does his little shuffle-dance, a move he unfortunately inherited from me, back to his collection of cookies. The music seems to do the trick because within moments they're all shimmying in some way, singing along in a wonderful, less-than-harmonious chorus.
For a few minutes, all is calm. The kids decorate their cookies in relative peace, arguments ceasing as the kitchen is filled with their voices as they sometimes sing the correct lyrics, and sometimes they make up their own. Everyone pauses when "The Hanukkah Song" comes on, laughing at all the usual places at jokes that haven't gotten stale, even after all these years. Monica and I have always made sure the kids know they're part Jewish, and these songs always tickle them, knowing they're written for them and not many of the people they know—instead of feeling different, it makes our kids feel special, like they're part of some secret club. I'd swear they're trying to convert people, though. Every year, they bring home a few new friends to show them the menorah and teach them the dreidel game, and usually they get Monica to tell the whole story, always listening intently, raptly, as if they've never heard it before.
Making sure our kids know they come from a diverse background has always been important to us. Even more important was making sure we never had another Holiday Armadillo incident.
"Mom," Jack says suddenly. "Why aren't there more of these songs?"
Monica shrugs, pulling a couple of sheets of cookies out of the oven, replacing them with the last of the cookie dough. "Because Adam Sandler only wrote three."
"Why doesn't he write more?" William asks, his finger whisking around the edge of the cookie dough bowl, shoving it in his mouth. Monica and I both know they shouldn't be eating it, but that's never stopped kids—ours or anyone else's—from doing it anyway. It's usually only a little bit, and they've done it for so many years and have never gotten sick that neither of us are too concerned with it. They all grew up around cookie dough and cake batter; I'd be more surprised if they didn't sneak it once in a while. Besides—the two of us do it, too, and we'd be hard-pressed to tell them it's bad when they see us doing it.
"I don't know, kiddo," she answers, transferring the cookies to a cooling rack. "You could write him and ask, though."
William cocks his head thoughtfully, turning to his brother to begin plotting out a letter that will probably never be written. As soon as the next song grabs their attention, they'll focus their attention on the next problem of the world.
The kids all pipe up at once as "All I Want For Christmas Is You" filters through the speakers, but I frown for a moment, confused. "This doesn't sound right."
The girls giggle and Jack turns to me for a moment, giving me an exasperated look. "It's a cover, Dad."
"By dudes?" I ask, more surprised that this version wound up on my phone without my knowledge more than anything else. "Who's it by?"
"My Chemical Romance."
I look at my youngest and she stares back at me innocently, a couple of tiny candy dots stuck to her cheek. "How do you know that band?"
She shrugs but cuts her eyes to Monica for just a second before going back to her cookies. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, checking to see if I'm mad. Honestly, I'm just shocked.
"Don't blow a gasket, hon," Monica tells me, washing the pans and bowls she can to keep ahead of the mess. "It's the only one they know, and it has the exact same lyrics as the original. We've just been trying to find different versions of some of these songs so they don't get old."
I shake my head, knowing that there's really no harm in it other than the shock of hearing my tiny daughter name off a band she should otherwise have no business knowing. "Next you're going to tell me that Nine Inch Nails has their own version of the Chipmunk Christmas."
"Not that I know of," she answers with a wink, turning back to the dishes. "But I'll check later, just in case."
"Daddy, I'm done with my cookies."
I stand over the little one's shoulder, observing her handiwork and nodding in approval. "Nicely done." I wrap my arms around her, kissing her temple. "Don't grow up too fast," I whisper.
"I won't," she promises in a whisper of her own, and Erica slides a few of her own undecorated cookies to her sister.
"You can help me if you want, Anna."
Monica and I groan simultaneously—just when we think we're done with Frozen, one of them brings it up again and we're back to "Elsa and Anna."
"Thank you, Elsa!" she squeals, throwing her arms around her sister, only saved from toppling off the counter by my arms still around her.
Erica kisses her cheek, a genuine, happy smile on her face at her sister's affection. "Anytime," she answers softly, and I can't help but feel proud of my oldest daughter—sometimes her little sister's attention can be a bit much for her, causing Erica to brush her to the side or push her away, but then she shares something, completely unprompted and sometimes even unnecessarily, and I realize just how much she loves her little sister, even if she has a tough time showing it.
"This batch is ready," Monica announces, drying her hands on a towel as she leans over the latest batch. Before she can move out of the way, William bounces over and grabs the rack, expertly sliding the cookies off to the counter in front of himself and his brother. "Ooookay. The girls get the last batch then."
"Deal," the boys answer simultaneously, then grin at each other at their tandem answer.
"Honey, will you take some pictures of the kids working on the cookies?" she asks as she starts grabbing ingredients and putting them back in the cabinets. "I want to put them on the page later."
"Sure," I answer, making sure Little Bit is safe on the counter before I go to my wife, spending much more time digging her phone out of her back pocket than I need to—she says nothing, but presses herself against my hand, smiling at me over her shoulder. "What do you want me to hashtag them as? Child labor?"
"You're funny," she answers, going to the pantry to pull out several plastic boxes to the put cookies in for the night. "Maybe you should tag it with 'recently widowed mother of four seeks new husband.'"
I wince, tweaking her ass before pulling the phone, finally, out of her pocket. "Kind of a long hashtag, Mon, but I'll see what I can do."
She jumps a little before turning to me, bracing one hand on my shoulder to lean up to kiss me. "Go do your part, ad exec. No filters."
I swipe into her phone and pull up the camera, angling in on the kids' handiwork, taking pictures of the backs of them as they're deep in concentration, getting shots of Monica pulling the last batch out of the oven. I lean over the girls and both of them whip their faces around at the same time, grinning wildly for the camera, their teeth still stained from the icing, their eyes a little glassy from all the sugar, and I burst out laughing as I press the shutter, turning the phone to show Monica. She just shakes her head. "I don't suppose you want this one on the page."
"I don't know," she answers, leaning on the counter next to the girls, Erica immediately leaning against her side. "I think everyone will want to know they're buying cookies made by wild animals."
As a unit, the four of them start snarling and growling, and it reminds me of when Jack and Erica were little and would pretend to be monsters, stomping around awkwardly, bearing their itty bitty teeth, calling themselves "mon-ters" and I ache for a moment—my kids are growing up. Sure, they still do silly kid things and we still have to remind them to do the basics and help them with their daily lives, but it's not the same. They're their own people, and half the time, something that was cool yesterday is an embarrassment today, and I never know when I'm going to receive an exasperated "Daaaad," instead of laughter.
I look up at my wife—she looks at me wistfully and I know she's thinking the same thing, too.
"Mommy, are people really going to buy our cookies?" the little one asks, smearing frosting haphazardly over her cookies.
"They did last year," she answers, tugging at Erica's ponytail playfully. "Don't you remember?"
"No."
No retention with this one. "You don't remember making cookies last year?" I ask her, moving over to the boys to see how they're doing.
"Yeah."
"Well, do you remember giving them to the neighbors?"
"Oh, yeah!"
William looks up at me, shaking his head with a smile on his face. "This kid, man."
I give him a nudge and he stumbles back dramatically. "You're such a punk."
"Anarchy in the UK, baby," he answers, casually going back to his cookies, and I look at Monica for answers again, but this time she just shrugs.
"I've never said that before in my life."
I look to my son again, but he seems to back in his own world again, so I turn back to the girls. "Do you remember going to the shop with Mommy and helping sell cookies last Christmas?"
She squints her eyes and tilts her head. "Kinda."
"Well, you did and you had a great time."
A couple of years after we moved to the neighborhood, in an effort to be more neighborly, we made cookies for some of the people on our street. They went over much better than the time Monica and Rachel tried to hand them out as tips in lieu of money. Every year since then, we've done some sort of baked good—of course, when I say "we," I really mean that Monica does the baking and I just smile prettily while she hands them out to people. I really lucked out with this woman—and everyone seems to really appreciate it. I guess living in a city, no one knows or cares how much you've got going on in your life and don't understand the time it takes to actually make a gift. Out here, though…everyone gets it. Everyone has kids and busy lives and a million different activities, and I think we all appreciate it when someone takes time to do the little things just as much as the big things.
Since we opened up the shop a few years ago, our neighbors have been insanely supportive and helpful—usually it's just watching the kids for a few hours when something comes up and Monica's stuck making a new pie or an extra batch of cookies, but it's more helpful than I could have imagined. And when you have a fledgling business, you're hard-pressed to turn down anyone who wants to pay you for your services.
The first couple of years were tough—even though it was what we both wanted and we both knew it'd be a lot of work, we hardly saw each other. Not even a little surprisingly, we didn't turn a profit, either. Still, the bakery was popular and always had customers, and even though we weren't earning money yet, at least we weren't losing it. The year we broke even was the first time either of us truly relaxed in longer than we could remember. Last year was the first time we were operating in the black and we actually threw a party for our neighbors. There was no containing that amount of joy.
This year…this year has been even better, and it's the first time we haven't questioned the decision for Monica to quit Javu and open up a bakery. I always believed it was the right thing to do; as make baking as she does at work, she still happily comes home and cooks dinner and bakes cupcakes for school parties, never complaining about actually being tired of doing what she does.
As promised, when we took the plunge what feels like a lifetime ago, I took full control of advertising and marketing. I set up a website that's still in operation today, and once Facebook became a "thing," we started a page there, too, to keep anyone interested up-to-date with the goings on at the shop, offering exclusive specials to the people there. We have a Twitter account that Monica mostly uses to tease people about a new product that's coming along—it's surprising effective, too, but it helps that people are food crazy lately. And, of course, the Instagram account which tends to send some people into a frenzy, especially because I get to have fun and be artistic, taking pictures of cakes and cookies and anything else at odd, appealing angles.
Again—pictures of food are huge right now, and when it's pictures of food people can actually buy, it's even more appealing.
We've been lucky though. We've put in a lot of hard work and extra hours over the last several years, too, but we were in the right place at the right time with the right niche and it's been going better than we ever dared to hope.
As to why the kids are selling cookies at the shop, though, that came about accidentally. When we threw the "thank you" party last year, we wound up with an overabundance of food—we went a little crazy and got carried away. Naturally, when Monica's in our kitchen, the kids want to be a part of it, and because she genuinely has fun doing that sort of thing with them, we didn't complain about the excess. The day after the party, Monica wrapped the leftover cookies into bundles and brought them into the store; since the homemade stuff comes out of our own budget and not the shop's, Monica had the kids make a sign, letting the world know that they'd made the cookies and the proceeds were being donated to charity.
Within an hour, they were gone.
Not even kidding—between the cute factor of slightly sloppily decorated cookies and us deciding, because we finally had success with the shop and we wanted to pay it forward, to give the money to someone more in need, they were snapped up immediately.
I think Monica was in shock when she posted a picture of the sign with the empty basket, letting the world know just how generous her customers had been, but her followers went nuts over it. It generated more interest in her and the show, prompting people to ask about it happening again this year. So while we're not in a position to donate the proceeds of an entire day's business yet, we decided to go a little bigger this year, get the kids even more involved, and hope for the best. She's had some people commenting on Instagram and Twitter that they're going to be waiting in line for her to open the store. Monica says they're kidding, but I can tell she really hopes that it's true.
"I want to get a picture of you guys holding up your favorite cookie, too," Monica says suddenly, and the four of them start scrambling to figure out which one they're proudest of. We try not to rely on them too heavily, but neither of us are above using our children as marketing ploys. They're cute, and people respond to cute.
"Mommy, I made an Olaf. See?" She holds out her tiny hand, decorated with painstaking detail for someone her age, and it really does look a lot like that damned snowman.
Monica smiles at her fondly, kissing her forehead. "Of course you did, baby. He's a great Olaf, too."
I take a few pictures of her while William comes over, holding his carefully—it's a bright green Christmas tree with silver candy balls as ornaments, little red lines traced across it as a garland, a blob of bright yellow frosting at the top for a star, all of it covered in edible glitter. "Twinkle lights," he explains.
"It's good stuff, dude," I reassure him, and he grins broadly as I take his picture.
"My favorite is one I made for Jack," Erica announces, looking over at her twin, cupping her hands around the cookie so no one can see it.
Jack grins at her crookedly as he ambles over, his own balanced on a paper towel. "Yeah, well, my favorite is one for you."
She smiles in response. "Count of three?"
My eyes immediately flick over to Monica at that. The kids have no way of knowing, nor will they ever know, that was how Monica and I first decided to see each other naked more than sixteen years ago—childishly counting to three to get over our nerves at seeing someone who'd always been just a friend in that manner.
Sixteen years and I've never regretted it once, not even for a moment.
"One," the twins say simultaneously. "Two…three!"
We all watch as they reveal their cookies for each other; Erica squeals with excitement.
"Jack! It's beautiful!"
He shrugs. "It's all right," he answers, his twin the only one ever able to make him even slightly embarrassed, especially when she loves something he's done.
"No, honey, that's gorgeous," Monica tells him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind.
"You've got some talent, man," I tell him, focusing on the cookie. He lifts an eyebrow at me casually as I take his picture, almost as if he's doing me a favor by just being there. I know it's just a front, though—they all love goofing off for any camera at any time.
"Eh," he answers, setting it carefully on the counter before Erica wraps her arms around him, still holding her own cookie carefully. When he wants to, Jack can be terribly creative, and this time he managed to make the most amazing snowflake. Somehow, he drew angles and designs, adding light blue to the frosting and covering it carefully with more of the edible glitter, making it look like it's actually an ice crystal. "I just though Queen Elsa should have her own snowflake."
Erica hugs him tighter. "I'm sorry I was mean," she whispers.
"It's okay," he answers, giving her a squeeze before pulling away.
"I'm gonna have to hire you at the bakery," Monica tells him and he gives her a look of mock surprise.
"You mean no more child labor?"
She glares at me for a moment before shoving his shoulder gently. "You sound too much like your father."
"Mine doesn't look as good as yours," Erica tells Jack apologetically.
"I'm gonna love it. Show me."
Almost reluctantly, she holds out the cookie in her hand and Jack's smile grows wider. "I put them close together on the cookie sheet so they'd come out joined," she explains.
Delicately, Jack plucks it out of Erica's hand, examining it carefully. Erica used the cutouts of tiny gingerbread boy and gingerbread girl and baked them close enough so they'd be holding hands. Then she decorated them in bright, primary colors, and gave them both blonde hair, making them look heroic. His eyes light up as he looks back to his twin. "Is that a 'WT' on their chests?"
She holds out her fist to his. "Wonder Twin powers activate," she answers, as he knocks his fist to hers, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too hard. These two are too much. Like cats and dogs one minute, then the best of friends the next.
"All right, Erica," I finally say. "Pose with your cookie."
"I want Jack in my picture," she answers, looking at me defiantly, as if she's making some outrageous request.
"I guess we can let it slide this once," I answer, rolling my eyes playfully, and they put their arms around each other's shoulders, holding the cookie together proudly.
"I wish I had a twin," a little voice says suddenly, and Monica drops to her knees, giving her little braids a tug.
"One of you is more than enough," she tells her, kissing our daughter on the tip of her tiny nose.
"Ooh!" I exclaim, making all of them jump a little. "Family selfie!"
Monica rolls her eyes at me but the kids gather around her, squishing in close. I drop down next to them, wrapping my free arm around as many of them as I can, holding the phone as far out as possible. "Your Instagram followers are gonna love this, Mon," I tell her.
"Well, if it's for the fans," she tells me, and I give her back a gentle pinch.
I start to tell my family to smile when I realize they're already grinning from ear to ear. Instead, I just take the picture.
*A/N…I started writing this at the beginning of December, right when I was in the middle of writing "You." Then it sort of fell by the wayside; Christmas came and went and I sort of abandoned it. Turns out, I hate to leave things unfinished. So, Christmas in February.
Also, in case you haven't heard it, there really is a version of "All I Want For Christmas Is You" by My Chemical Romance, and it's AWESOME. Not as good as the original, of course...