I always thought building gingerbread houses was for an evil old lady trying to lure innocent youngsters to her lair. On Christmas Eve morning, after driving a friend to the airport, my wife and our son opened up a kit to make our own. Gingerbread house, not lair.

Maybe a lair would have been easier.

As Shannon pulled the two roof pieces from the package, they broke in the same place along a diagonal line. She was ready to call it quits.

“Maybe we can make our own gingerbread to replace those,” I said.

“We can’t do that. Sometimes you say things without thinking first,” she said.

“Just brainstorming, dear.” Admittedly, it wasn’t a very brainy suggestion.

I tried repairing the broken pieces with tape, but it wouldn’t stick. Then Shannon came out with the hot glue gun and did a beautiful job.

If only the icing had worked nearly as well during construction, we might have had an “after” photo. I was working from home, so I couldn’t dedicate a large chunk of time to the effort, and Shannon’s patience by that time was gone.

Benjamin, who by that time had decorated and gobbled down the gingerbread man, was content decorating the remaining pieces without making a house of them.

Then the snow piled up to cover the grass and turned everything brilliant white, promising a Texas Christmas just as white as the wall Benjamin decorated for Shannon.