The monster who hates her Christmas tree

For those people who consider themselves too selfish to ever be suited to having children: you are probably right. Because if there is one thing about parenting you should know, it's that all of your aesthetic aspirations will be trampled upon by the tiny feet you work so hard to care for. And you are  monster if you care about the fact that your sweet little darling put cut up pieces of twine all over your Christmas tree and 3/4 of the ornaments are clumped up on the bottom 18 inches of the tree like so many Canadians huddled along the border. And if you dare to redistribute them because the rest of the tree looks downright barren, your husband will give you a look that says, "I feel like I barely know you." Because then you are the perfectionist whose kid ends up in therapy because she's unable to accomplish anything out of fear her mother will swoop in and fix it. Oh, okay: not you. Me. ME! I am the one stuck with a tree that looks like this:

If we lived in a house in a city that didn't demand your dining table abut your Christmas tree, I would have two trees and my kid could cover hers in garbage, which is what she wants. Until then, the only thing for me to do is stop caring. Again: my husband thinks I am a monster.

Here's my contribution to diabetes this week: Homemade Gingerbread Caramels wrapped in origami boxes I made from cardstock:

Here's my assistant trying to sneak a taste (is it Food Safe (TM) to wrap candy in your underpants?)

That's all for today, folks. (P.S. I interviewed two people in Saskatchewan last week and they BOTH said "folks" repeatedly. Cute, right?)