This year one of the two Christmas activities the kids requested was making a gingerbread house. (The other was putting up Christmas lights outside. I totally didn’t do that. I think I’ve only managed it once since we’ve lived here.) How this gingerbread desire started I can’t actually remember, but if I had to guess, it probably involved some beautifully decorated, mouth-watering image of a gingerbread house on a box in a store.
And I’m totally up for adopting that tradition, and weeks ago googled gingerbread recipes and house-building tips. And then, during my pre-Christmas grocery shopping, I bought a Dancing Deer kit. Because it just sounded easier, less likely to end in a crumbled ruin of a house (I could just picture myself trying to sell it to the boys as what happens when a gingerbread house falls into a state of neglect), and because frankly they wouldn’t care whether it was homemade. I’m palliating this choice by promising myself that I’ll do it properly next year — although in fairness, I could be lying.
I call that a Christmas Eve success. More specifically, a sweet, sticky, plunk-the-kids-straight-into-the-bath success.