Dear Motherhood,

I’m stoked. I think I have pre-maturely figured you out via through sitting on of Babies. And by Babies, I mean one really stellar near-eight year old girl in particular. Her name is Kate.

Step one: Give the Kate at least two hours to dance it out to High School Musical Two. The REMIX, even.

Allow time for costume changes and impromptu moving of furniture. Freak out when she does cartwheels in her socks.

Step two: Cookie Shop, and how. Take the Kate with you to purchase the ingredients. She likes this. Let her convince you to use white chocolate chips, because those are her favorite, and her parents both like dark so she never gets to have it. Also let her convince you to buy a giant overpriced can of organic whipped cream that you will later forget you bought, and most likely use in un-child rearing activities.

Step three: Cookie bake. Let Kate do most of it herself, as hard as it is to let go. Let her eat big dough balls off the spoon.

During cookiethon, allow her to the tell the story of Where All her Teeth Went. Allow Kate to ball the dough childishly onto the tray, like so:

Let go. Let her do it. Letting go is hard. It looks like this:

Finally, Step Four: while they are baking,  paper doll it all to hell.  Dig through your personals, grab your construction paper and sticker collection. Go to Town.

Make a girl doll and a boy doll. Force them to make out.

Wonder why Kate prompts this, and knows what it means.

In summation: Bring it, motherhood. I welcome your letting-go challenges, and your butteryburnt cookies.