One day while browsing the holiday aisle at the grocery store, I saw the cutest little gingerbread house kits. Acting like a true Martha Stewart wannabe, I decided I absolutely must buy one, bring it home, and start a new Christmas tradition for Teague and I. “What fun - a mini fixer-upper… with yummy candy and less plaster dust!”

Somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispered dark warnings. “You’re both too anal. You’ll never agree on where to put that peppermint twist. This will be no fun. And look at those gumdrops - they don’t even match.” Filled with Christmas spirit, I ignored this voice and brought home the giant box of sugary goodness. When I revealed our latest project to Teague, he surprised me by acting interested in participating - no coaxing needed. His immediate questions involved how much of the candy he could eat whilst decorating, and after decorating, and if by chance some icing slipped off and accidentally fell in his mouth - could he eat that too? And what happens to it after Christmas, when it has turned to stale ginger-brick? Was he then free and clear to eat said ginger-brick? I do feed him, I swear…. he’s just a sugar fiend.

The minute we cracked open that box, the trouble began. There is a fundamental difference in how we look at projects, and this is what causes most of our house-related arguments. I tend to obsess over the “girly” aspects of any project; color, layout, and pretty garnishes. Teague obsesses more over the bones of things - making them sturdy, practical, and efficient. While we’re both perfectionists to some degree, he has much more patience and will go to great lengths to keep things ideal at every step. Even things that no one else in the whole world would ever notice. This is a great quality, but it frustrates me when I’m raring to go and want progress! quickly! right now!

So, when we opened the box I immediately grabbed the frosting, cracked open the candy bags, and was ready to slap the gingerbread hunks together. Meanwhile, Teague was in the other room rummaging around for a straight edge ruler and a brown marker so that he could draw individual, perfectly straight “shake” shingles on the roof.

You think I’m kidding? When I stopped giggling, I snapped a photo as our “quick holiday project” turned into a week-long affair before my eyes.

While he drew and measured and drew some more, I tried putting the walls together. But my technique wasn’t up to code, and I was apparently doing it all wrong. After a few too many comments about my building skills (which are admittedly not on par with his, but a gingerbread house? really?) I got huffy and handed Teague the frosting bag, no longer enjoying anything about this particular tradition. I do not handle negative feedback well, especially when it’s coming from him. Even if it IS helpful and/or necessary.

We then had a somewhat deep discussion about how gingerbread houses were supposed to be FUN, they did not have to be perfect, there is no exact science to the amount of icing needed per square inch, etc. I let him eat some candy, and he let me slop the icing on a little thick. He let go of the shingle-measuring, opting instead for the traditional loopy scallops. We did our best to behave like enthusiastic children instead of snippy adults.

The candy piled on, coordinated and symmetrical but not TOO perfect. The house was looking pretty great, and we were actually having fun. And then, without warning….

The roof caved in, causing the whole thing to fall apart before our eyes. Gumdrops went flying, icing was smeared, and a little peppermint went rolling off the table. We cringed, surveying the damage. I got dramatic, immediately ready to throw it away. Teague turned quiet, busily thinking up ways to repair the roof. Here, again, our differences are evident. Within a few seconds, he’d used a handful of my quilting straight pins to tie the broken pieces together. We reinforced the roof and corners with pins as well, and we were back in action. All was not lost! Though eating it after the holidays will be even more dangerous with so many sharp objects embedded in it.

After about two hours of gingerbreading, we ended up with something charmingly imperfect, with wonky walls and droopy icing. We forgave each other for our snarky comments and un-christmasy behavior, admitted we were seriously insane for caring so much about a glorified cookie, and sat back to relax and admire our accomplishments.

In short, it went exactly how every project around here goes….. we daydream and come up with blue-sky ideas. Then we bicker, we stress, and sometimes do battle. And then, frustrated and tired, we start to compromise. We let the petty things go and start working together until eventually we finish. And when we finish, all past sins are forgotten and we bask in the glow of all we’ve accomplished together. It’s probably not the best way to get through a renovation (or a gingerbread house), but it works for us.