Bondage-Clad Gingerbread Men

I love this time of year. There is a pristine white blanket of snow out my front window, the smell of fresh-baked cookies wafts through my home, and my children are extra nice because they know a jolly fat man is watching their every move and just waiting for them to fuck up.

It’s the smell of cookies that really gets me during the holidays, however. Even though I’m a baker, and wafting cooking dough typically fills my home at least once or twice a week, it feels different somehow during the holidays. It’s a festive thing to pull out a tray of perfectly shaped gingerbread men, awaiting their icing-accessories.

I love to gather ‘round the kitchen table. Frosting already prepared by my own hands, and watch as my children delight in dolling up their soon-to-be treats.

I don’t know why. It’s just something about that kind of time spent together that makes me feel like a real family. Something out of the 1950s — although, I rarely wear an apron, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the 10-year-olds back then wouldn’t have piped BDSM outfits on their cookies.

But look at me, I’m getting ahead of myself here. I suppose I should start from the beginning.

It was a blizzardy afternoon, and I decided to keep the children occupied by decorating cookies with them. The gingerbread had been baked and cooled and was sitting upon racks with plastic piping bags of all colours peppering the table.

The kids bounded up the stairs, so excited to show off their creative talents when it came to cookie-frosting. Typically, Lars gets more of the icing directly into his mouth than on the cookie. In general, he’s more concerned about how the cookies taste rather than their appearance.

Sophie, on the other hand, is all about showmanship. This kid will spend hours crafting the perfect snowman upon her cookie canvas and then ask me to take as many pictures as possible to cram down the throats of my social media friend’s list.

I had been finishing up the dishes in the sink when Soph came up to me and asked if I’d take a look at her decorating skills.

I walked over to the table, and that’s when I noticed that my ten-year-old had iced some sort of sexual bondage outfit onto not one but several of the gingerbread men.

I didn’t know what was worse, the red sparkly hood or the leather nipple pasties. Immediately, I started panicking.

WHY WOULD MY 10 YEAR OLD BE DECORATING SUCH SUGGESTIVE THEMES ON OUR CHRISTMAS COOKIES!?!?

Visions of nefarious and much too mature internet content started racing through my head. Had she figured out how to break loose from her internet restriction cage I had set up for her at, like, the age of 2? I was already halfway to her computer to check out what she had been searching for when she called out, “What, don’t you like my reindeer?”

What the hell did that mean!? I gaped. Some sort of sick and twisted nickname for the abomination of a cookie she had just presented me?

After a good ten seconds of me staring into the abyss of what this cookie and its ultimate meaning suggested, Sophie slowly flipped it upsidedown to reveal exactly what she had mentioned moments before.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I was relieved. However, I was a bit worried, too, because what did this mean for me as a human being?

Why the hell did my brain go to BDSM immediately when looking at my kid’s Christmas cookie decoration? Sure it’s all fun and games when you’re looking for some experimental adventures in the bedroom with your partner, but a kid’s Christmas cookie? What’s wrong with me?

I swear to God in the new year, I’m going to seek out that therapist I keep telling myself I need to find.