Upon our return home we had some unfinished business in regards to our gingerbread houses. Namely, they were still around and uneaten. At every reminder of these facts I’d hem and haw and attempt a distraction. “Look! Monday is eating your breakfast!” The instigators were undeterred. I tried, wanted, to stay resolute – after all it was stale dusty sugar. The line must be drawn somewhere and this was it for me.
For a week, anyway.
After many hints, reminders, begging and pleading I caved with one condition:
They had 10 minutes.
That was it. No other rules or guidelines for decorum or method. Just let ‘er rip.
They discovered that the taking apart is almost as fun as the building and that candy turns really, really hard if left out. Twizzlers shattered, marshmallows crunched and Tootsie Rolls had become indestructible.
Then there was a countdown and all happily piled what remained of their houses onto their boards and with flourish we presented it all to Monday who was so confused about the whole thing she was sure it was a trick. Finally, she dug in and spent the rest of the evening in a sugar coma.
Meanwhile, all four children traipsed off to bed after brushing their permagrins and Jac and I went downstairs so we could pretend they were already asleep while they burned off their sugar rush.
It was sweet.
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