A Monster Ate My Gingerbread House: A Season to Remember

“Grammy, you stand right here,” My youngest Granddaughter, Sophie, said.

It was Saturday morning, two weeks before Christmas, and we were visiting our favorite craft store. I could smell the strong scent of the dried eucalyptus that filled the space as I listened to the voice of my 10-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, as she described the display of kits for gingerbread houses. Around her neck she wore my wireless FM microphone that transmitted her voice directly into my powerful hearing aids, and she clearly described all about what she saw. We had planned this adventure last night, when she was sleeping over at Grammy’s house. We would get Uncle Steve to drop us off at the store, where Sophie knew the kits were for sale. Then we would shop around and purchase everything needed to make a super gingerbread house. Finally, after we stood in line and paid for our purchases, Sophie would give Uncle Steve a call and he would pick us up.  After we got home, we would create the most wonderful gingerbread house ever.

Sophie and her sisters are very used to shopping with me. I tell my guide dog, Akira, to “Follow,” and we maneuver up and down the crowded aisles. Sometimes one of the girls will take my hand and place it on her shoulder. Then I know to drop the harness and use the leash to heel the dog “sighted guide” through tight places.

“Look at this,” one of my granddaughters may say, while she places something interesting into my hand to “see.” 

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Sophie carefully read the directions out loud, and she made the frosting perfectly. The gingerbread shapes were spread out on the large cutting board in my kitchen to be carefully “glued” with the sticky white icing.

“There,” Sophie said.  “It’s just right.”

I had been supporting the square shapes for Sophie with my hands so she could attach the side walls of the house with the thick frosting. My heart sank when I realized that she had spoken too soon, because, as I removed my hand, I brushed the walls and they fell down.

The thick frosting was beginning to set, but Sophie started in again. It wasn’t easy, but she did the job, and after waiting a little while, she started on the roof

“It’s pretty messy, but it looks all right,” she assured me, but we had used up most of the icing from the kit.

Luckily, I had another can of prepared frosting in the cabinet and Sophie began about one hour of artistically placing the wonderful assortment of candy all over the little house.  I dared not touch it to look at it. It would be awful if I ruined it now.

Sophie showed me the smooth, little candies that looked like Christmas lights — the spongy marshmallow trees that were sprinkled with crunchy, green sugar — and I tasted the spearmint leaves, the spicy, gum drops and, finally the tiny little sour, colored balls that she placed all over the roof. She told me how she broke off the candy canes to make a chimney and made little bushes and trees out of more candy canes and gum drops. It was a masterpiece!

“It’s looking good,” said Uncle Steve as he came through the kitchen and went out the back door.

Next, I cleared a spot on the dining room table and Sophie carefully carried the wonderful creation in from the kitchen.

Something happened. I knew it.  There was a long, pregnant pause.

“Please, Sophie. What happened?” I whispered.

Then, another long, terrible pause.

“It all fell down… it all fell down,” Sophie moaned, and She tried with no success to put it all back again.

Now, the tears. Quietly at first, then the sobs.

“It was all my fault,” I told myself. “If I could see, I would have known that the little house wasn’t set up enough yet and too fragile to move. Maybe it was the additional frosting that softened the stiff gingerbread.”

Somehow, I had to make things right.

A few hours later, we were smiling again. Even though I was ready to mortgage my house to buy her the world, I came to my senses. I called my daughter, Sophie’s Aunt Amy, and she pointed out that it wasn’t the end of the world and we could just eat the candy.

Sophie and I sat and talked for a long time …how hard disappointments are to bear …what we could do next, and, finally, Sophie took a picture of the poor little gingerbread house with her cell phone. She sent it to her Aunt Amy and Uncle Steve.

“A monster ate my gingerbread house,” Sophie named the picture, and she even talked about making another little gingerbread house next weekend.