When I picked up the gingerbread house kit at the grocery store, it seemed like an innocent, family-friendly activity. The package included "Everything you need! Premade Icing! Lots of Candy! No Baking!" It was idiot-proof. I just had to buy it.

When I brought it home, I ceremoniously showed the package to the kids, promising that when we had some quiet time (and my three year old was napping) we would assemble and decorate this charming little spiced cookie cottage. Oh, the fun! Oh, the memories! Everything we needed was right there under the plastic dome.

I shoved the box on top of the fridge for a week. I had a birthday to celebrate, pancake breakfasts to attend and school parties to throw. Add to the general bustle of the week a family with major colds, and you've got a recipe for oh no we are NOT making that gingerbread house today. It sat on the top of the fridge for another two days, mocking us with its promise of everything we needed right inside the box.

Finally, after spending the last two days in bed, it dawned on me that the odds of me having a clean bill of health and a sleeping toddler at the same time were nil. As the three year old snored in my husband's arms, I yanked that box off the fridge and slapped it on the table.

"Gather 'round, children. We are going to make merry and stuff." I unboxed the contents with a flourish.

My five year old unleashed an epic cough right onto the tray where the house was to be assembled. Nice.

I marched everyone over to the sink for a thorough handwashing (again) and returned them to the table while I got bowls for the candies. After a couple of covered sneezes and round of nose blowings, I made them sit way back from the table while I squirted "queen icing" onto the house walls. My oldest has it in her head that royal icing is really queen icing, and who am I to argue the fine points?

I got the structure of the house up pretty quickly, and then set the timer for fifteen minutes to let the icing set. I dumped the candies into their bowls and decided no way was I eating any part of this house. The kids were dripping, drooling, oozing little germ-carriers. Granted, I'm sick as well, with a nose as red as Rudolph's, but I wasn't sneaking licks of my fingers and then picking up candy.

They "decorated" the extra pieces by liberally coated them with icing, jimmies, and germs. The little snowman became a 'fashionable woman,' and the gingerbread boy became a monster, and the little tree became somebody's snack, but I can't get anyone to own up to eating it.

After the timer went off, I attacked the flat surfaces with the now clumpy icing, trying to duplicate the picture on the box. Hah! Hahahahaha! Between the icing's consistancy, my own inept attempts to smooth it, or get it to adhere, or do something other than lay there like day-old toothpaste in the sink, I was getting pretty hysterical.

The kit apparently didn't come with patience. A major oversight for family baking projects, in my opinion.

So there I stood, smashing icing onto the roof while the kids licked their fingers between each candy placement and coughed grandly on the sidelines.

After a whilrlwind decorating spree, the house stood jaunty and pert, coated with candy and shiny white icing. It looked pretty good, considering it's potential for germ warfare disbursement.

I checked the clock. We'd managed to kill a whopping 30 minutes, including the 15 minute wait. A speedy family memory making event, to be sure. I lifted the house up to the top of the fridge to set, and shooed the kids away.

As I write, one side of the roof has slid halfway off, and the chimney has collapsed under the weight of ninety-thousand jimmies. The "Fashionable Woman" is face down in her icing, and the "monster" has collapsed against the side of the house.

Our cottage looks like we are slum-lords. We made a gingerbread flop house, complete with "fashionable lady" passed out on the lawn.

I still consider this little project a raging success. I'll tell you why: every single time I attempt to do any baking with my kids, I insist that they do it my way. I micromanage cookie cutters and candy placement. I stress everyone out, in an attempt to make a beautiful finished project. The kids end up frustrated and disappointed that I have to have everything 'just so.' Seeing the pride on their faces as they look at our out-of-the-box masterpiece is better than straight walls and perfectly aligned gumdrops any day.

You cannot pay me to eat it, however.