Motherhood's guilty pleasures

A few years ago, a neighbor brought my 3-year-old daughter home after a play date and asked me a funny question: “Zoey says she’s never eaten a chocolate chip cookie before. Is that true?”

“Well, that’s weird,” I responded. “Because we have cookie … ”

I stopped before I finished my sentence. My family knows when I say, “Let’s make cookies,” what I really mean is “Let’s make cookie dough!” The truth is that we hardly ever make it to the baking part. Once the mixing is done, I eagerly hand out spoons, and we all indulge in a delicious, sugary feast. Cookie dough was how I should have finished that sentence but I was scared to say it. Guilt began to drizzle through my veins as I worried what this woman would think if she knew the truth: that I willingly give my kids raw dough.

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