During a recent bout of insomnia, I got the good idea to bake gingerbread men. Mostly I wanted to have a cookie-decorating party, but also - what else is there to do at three o'clock in the morning? And then I got the even better idea to poke a skewer through the gingerbrains of a dozen of those little critters and string them with a bit of ribbon so I could hang them on our Christmas tree.
Which I hadn't put up yet. Dang. So I also did that. But really - what else is there to do at five o'clock in the morning?
By the time I had the furniture rearranged and the tree decorated and the place tidied up again, it wasn't so early anymore. Small Fry came downstairs. I set down my seventeenth cup of coffee of the day and assumed a defensive crouch.
7:53am: Small Fry gasps and runs over to stand, starry-eyed, in front of the tree. A misguided "Oh, he's so sweet! I should get the camera" synapse fires in my brain.
7:53:10am: I reach up my nose with an ornament hook and rip that idiotic neuron out at the roots.
7:53:20am: Small Fry throws his arms open and exclaims, "I love it!" ... and leaves the tree completely alone.
No word of a lie. He didn't touch it at all. Not with a dinosaur, not with his eyeballs, not even with his nipples. What a difference from last year! This year's tree didn't require one iota of parental management.
Um, sorry, camera-neuron. Guess that was a little rash of me.
But then tonight I looked over and saw this:
I no longer have a collection of adorable, homemade keepsake ornaments: I am the proprietor of a retirement community for gingerbread amputees. Not to mention, the mother of a rather devious Christmas-tree-worshipping pagan with possible cannibalistic tendencies. *sigh* Merry Christmas to me.