Nibble, Nibble Little Mouse...

"...Who's been nibbling at my house?" demanded the wicked witch.

Guess that's me.

Connor and Mia and I spent about an hour assembling a very elaborate gingerbread house night before last, as a "Welcome Home Daddy" offering (Daddy had been freezing his sugarplums off in Minneapolis, on business). "This is a centerpiece, Connor. We're not going to eat this, are we?"
"Nooo," he replied gravely.
"We want Daddy to see our beautiful work, right?"
"Right, Mommy."
Then I put him to bed.

The house was delightfully silent, not a creature was stirring. So I ventured down to the basement for my nightly email perusal and general goofing off online. I was down there maybe an hour.

I climbed the stairs and rounded the corner to the kitchen, where I beheld a suspicious sight. Someone had pulled out a chair, climbed into it, and dragged the lazy susan, complete with irresistible centerpiece, into arms' reach. They'd then bitten the roof to swiss cheese, and tried to reposition the evidence, albeit upside-down and backward. My gaze shifted to the doorway between kitchen and living room, where a trembling three-year-old stood, the remnants of gingerbread house carnage still lingering at the corner of his mouth.

I said nothing.

He said nothing, then promptly burst into tears.

I'll admit I was a little irritated, but I didn't fail to recognize the humor in the situation. That house must have looked to him like a giant bottle of Scotch to an alcoholic. He has the most ravenous sweet tooth of any kid I know. He probably held out as long as he could, poor guy.



We're keeping the gimpy gingy house on the table. I've promised Connor he can devour it from foundation to roof peak if he'll just wait a few more days and let us enjoy it. I know he's biding his time. This is one of those tales I'll surely tell for Christmases to come. What an adorable memory.