My mother’s love language included Christmas baking. From pfeffernusse to fudge, from peanut brittle to Christmas stollen, Mom always served up trays and trays of sweet goodies on Christmas eve.

So this story came about because I thought a mother’s love should include Christmas cookies.  I keep telling myself that, anyway.

The cookie cutter set I found one November seemed to fit that goal. The box seduced me with photos of beautiful cookies in the shape of Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus in a manger. A little piping of frosting, a few sparkles in the right place, and my family would have a unique nativity set.

This was not ours. This was what I dreamed ours would look like.

And the best part was that we could do this project as a family with everyone helping.

I bought the set.

Yes, I knew we wouldn’t get the cookies quite as perfect as the photos. We had a two-year-old at the time. He would produce a cute but goofy little cookie. 

It was OK. I could overlook the children’s immature attempts.

However, I forgot to factor in their mother.

I knew we were in trouble when I pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven. But there was no time to do another batch. The family was waiting.

Baby Jesus in the manger resembled a toasted marshmallow.

The sheep – and I’d made lots of them – all were blimps. Some had short fat legs but, since you couldn’t tell where the head was, the legs could have been prickles, too.  Or maybe the head was.

Great. Christmas porcupines.

The camels’ longer legs had melded while baking. 

“Is this a tree?” asked the six-year-old. Thanks, Dear.

The shepherds had morphed into tall planks of fencing. Or maybe a Volkswagen bug. It was hard to say.

 Kneeling Joseph was now a giant S. 

The kids were game, anyway. They slathered on frosting that was so thin that the blues and oranges for the wise men’s gowns flowed together, making a muddy brown. 

Well, I thought those cookies were the wise men because of the lumps at the top, which I identified as crowns. Maybe they were cows with horns, in which case the muddy brown frosting made more sense.

There was a stable printed on the back of the box that could be assembled as the backdrop. I tossed that idea after our older son frosted an angel as though it were a donkey. I couldn’t see displaying these peculiar little figures.

When we were done, with sticky frosting on our fingers and sparkles drifting to the floor, I studied the blobs of icing and cookie. 

“Well, this didn’t work out quite as I had hoped,” I told the family.

My husband surveyed the table, surrounded by sets of eager young eyes, and picked up a cookie. “Then we’d better destroy the evidence.”