These definitely say, "Eat me." If you can't hear them, lean your ear closer to your monitor and watch a couple more disappear. My husband ought to be dubbed the Grand Cookie Master. He mixes the ingredient without an electric mixer, because God has equipped him with muscly arms. My arms wouldn't last past the fifth stroke. With a measuring cup and brown sugar, he can make fatally yummy chocolate chip cookies. Last night he took his cookies a tier higher by embellishing them with pecans (which he picked and shelled in his sparse free time). I am serious. He and the kids have been gathering nuts at the park like squirrels preparing for snow. There are bags of pecans drying in the laundry room to prove it.
How do I smoothly transition from gourmet cookies to the lowly porcupine? Well, when Persistent Pants asks me for another cookie for the umpteenth time, I am going to try to smile and reply patiently. The chalk sketch is my visual reminder that I can become "the porcupine." I unfortunately know that my words and tones of voice can become like quills stabbing those around me. Best Beware. And when the voices asking for things makes the noise level deafening and I am tempted to let out a war whoop and string my bow, I am going to look over to that blackboard and realize I have a choice. Let this quill not fly.
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