Yesterday was gingerbread day at our house. I (briefly) contemplated making the gingerbread myself this year, but after seeing how complicated it is, how you seem to need architect-level skills to measure and cut the pieces, I decided to go with our stand-by pre-made kits.

We did supplement with our own candy from the store in town, though.

(Just what my daughter needs: extra sugar)

The kids did really well this year; they can wield their own frosting tubes now, with globs falling out of the top only a few times.

Garrett made a train, and Viv made two tiny houses.

(It was supposed to be five tiny houses, but she kept throwing the kit out of the cart onto the store floor, so only two houses survived…)

She did a great job, once she stopped shoving handfuls of frosting and candy into her mouth and actually started putting it onto the gingerbread.

Garrett is an old pro at gingerbread by now; we do this every year.

Mama was the one who struggled to hold it together at times during the process. In part because Viv and I have had a few sleepless nights dealing with a cold, along with her sudden fear of sleeping alone after our vacation. In part because we now have to be on guard constantly because of the two little commandos who seem to be starving 24/7 and are very sneaky:

At one point, I realized I wasn’t really enjoying the gingerbread tradition at all. I was just trying to get through it without losing my temper.

So I started taking photos, and I took a few deep breaths, and I reminded myself that it’s okay to not be the tirelessly happy, ever-giving Mama that I think my kids deserve. That it’s not my job to teach them “perfect,” it’s my job to teach them “human.”

I don’t know what they will remember about our annual gingerbread fest. I know I’ll remember it never ended up being about the gingerbread after all.