Ana trips out after making cookie dough.
Tomorrow I will bake gingerbread men and holiday sugar cookies with my offspring.
That's a strange word: offspring. My dictionary says it comes from Old English: off and springan, to rise. the progeny of a person, animal or plant. A product or result.
Did my daughters spring out of my womb?
Technically yes, if you call 36 hours of labor "springing."
As a toddler, my son loved to lie on the bottoms of my feet as I lay on my back and raised him up in the air like an airplane. He "sprang" into imaginary flight with me, especially when I let go of his hands.
I get a spring in my step when I dash after my just-walking grandson. I would spring into action if a stranger looked too keenly at my wallet. I definitely spring when I jump on a trampoline.
An off spring sounds like it would cause a car to be lopsided. Or came off the screen door.
If we have an off spring, it means the weather is atypically cold, and winter is lingering long past our collective welcome.
Progeny is an equally high fallutin' word. Pro gene. Go genes! (Sounds like a football cheer.)
I am for genes, but not for genetically modifying them. No one should play God for profit.
Weeds have far too many progeny. Weed seeds can lie dormant in the soil for up to 50 years. Talk about the undead.
Mosquito eggs are good for approximately 15 years. The mosquito is Minnesota's unofficial state bird.
The approved state bird is the loon, a water bird with a haunting night-time call, distinctive black and white markings and parental devotion. Its offspring ride on their parents' backs.
Which is almost as good as pretend flying.