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Every year I plan to make tons of Christmas cookies. I gather my favorite recipes together and make a list of things I'll need: flour, sugar, brown sugar, corn syrup, vanilla, baking powder, baking soda, choco-chips and raisins. I have even gone so far as to buy a new rolling pin and cookie cutters. I added rum, Irish Cream and red wine to my list, as well. This is purely medicinal, trust me.

Then a memory grips me and makes me shudder! I quickly stuff it all back in the cupboards. I hold the cupboard door tight to be sure it's all tucked away tightly.

Our five children were between the ages of two and 10. My brilliant husband had the idea that I should make cookies with the kids and enjoy a snowy day indoors. The Philadelphia forecast was for 18 inches of snow. He then left for work. I'd had two cups of coffee, and I envisioned this beautiful scene of a family sharing love and baking cookies. The fireplace was toasty warm, and the yard was covered in snow. This is how Christmas memories are made. Surely Hallmark would want our picture. In my mind, we'd have six dozen beautifully decorated batches by mid-afternoon. I brewed more coffee and got the ingredients together.

My favorite Christmas CD was blaring as I pre-heated the oven. Brenda Lee was "Rocking Around The Christmas Tree." I sang along as the kids gathered at the table. Within an hour we had a batch of peanut butter cookies, topped with a chocolate kiss finished. Sixty went in the oven and 60 came out. We had 15, on the platter and their mouths were stuffed like chipmunks.

I was tapping my toes to "When Santa Claus Gets Your Letter" as we moved onto the sugar cookies. Oh, this was going to be so fun! A fight ensued about who got which reindeer/ snowman/ gingerbread man/angel cutter. Winston, our English Mastiff, started pacing and drooling. His head was level with the table and his eyes were bulging out at the aroma of fresh-baked cookies.

The 2-year-old was just learning potty training and insisted he needed to poop. I ran him upstairs and left the other little cherubs to roll and cut shapes. All went well on the potty, and we clapped and cheered. "Little Drummer Boy" was blaring when I returned to the kitchen. It looked like a confectioned sugar factory exploded. I started to heat up from the stress and, without thinking, I turned the ceiling fan on high. Bad move. A level two, sugar tornado swirled around the table. Winston was licking the air, in hopes of catching some sugar. The girls were blinded and screaming.

The two year-old had disappeared back upstairs and was now screaming at the top of the steps. His sweet, 3-year-old sister went to check on him. Her brand-new Mary Janes were dotted in sugar. "Ho! Ho! Ho! Who Wouldn't Go…Up On the Rooftop With Good St Nick" blasted in the living room.

"Oh Holy Night" was just starting when the screaming stopped. Then a very, very bad, familiar odor followed the 2-year-old into the kitchen. He was not finished on the potty. I must have been in a rush to get back to the festive cookie party. He had bumpity-bumped down the 12-stair steps and left his mark of poop on each step. I changed the song to "Oh Holy Hell!" In addition, his sister was on a recon mission to find the bad smell and stepped in a wad of poop in her brand-new, sugar-covered, Mary Janes. She toured the upstairs trying to find out what stunk. When she came back down, she reported, "Something stinks." The music had changed to "I'll Be Home For Christmas" as I planned an escape to get the hell out of my Christmas cookie hell.

The sugar cookies were burning. I bet you won't find that scent in the Yankee Candle store - burnt sugar cookie/ poop - candles for the holiday mood. I was sweating profusely as I delegated the decorating to the older boys. This caused a crying fit because the two younger girls had already broken into the sprinkles and jimmies. I gave each kid a few cookies and some sprinkles and went to find the carpet extractor and change little stinky a**. Rudolph serenaded me as I improvised "Rudolph The Pain in the Ass Reindeer."

By two o'clock, we had five batches of cookies made. There should have been more than 300 beautifully decorated cookies. We had 42 in our cookie tin. Winston had eaten balls of dough that the boys threw at each other. He was walking very slowly, his belly hanging, and moaning. The boys were covered in chunks of dough and had sprinkles in their hair. They had stacks of mini dough snow balls for the next fight. The girls were still happily decorating the sugar cookies. The angel cookies had a psychedelic look with all of the mismatched colors. And there goes Brenda Lee "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree." AGAIN!!! Seriously???

My husband, with the great idea to make these flipping cookies, arrived as I finished scraping dough off the walls. "Wasn't this a great idea?" he asked as he chomped cookie number 42. "Joy To The World" blasted as he went for another cookie. We now had 41 cookies. Six hours, kitchen destroyed, dog sick, carpets pooped upon, and he is eating our inventory! Our precious inventory!!

One day I will make Christmas cookies again. Maybe next year when Hallmark calls and wants to visit my cozy home. If I can learn to stop shuddering at the sight of Snickerdoodles, I think I can do it. Yes, I will make Christmas cookies next year if and only if there is a prediction for 18 inches of snow - on a blustery, cold December day in sunny Florida.

- Anne Bardsley

Anne Bardsley, of St. Petersburg, Fla., is the author of How I Earned My Wrinkles, a collection of humorous and sentimental stories about marriage, motherhood and menopause. She lives in a menopausal world with a husband who gives her wrinkles. When people ask her age, she sometimes tells them her bra size. "36-C," she says, "was a wonderful age."