Sweet holiday treat: the bane of my existence!

Christmas is nearly upon us, and the insanity of the holidays at our house has certainly set in! I have been kept very busy between protecting the Christmas tree from Jaymes, removing candy canes from his hair, and wiping red and green paint off his (fairly) new shoes. Thankfully most of our Christmas shopping is done, the hardest part was the kids and short of buying a couple new items, they’re good to go.
I really wanted to get a new (fake) tree, and we were set to get one at Target that was on a fantastic sale… But turned out they sold out, and the red shirted gentleman refused to sell the floor model. Oh well. I was kind of bummed out about it, but we put up our sad little crooked 4 ft tree and it looks really pretty all lit up with rainbow lights and our ornaments. We use the glass ornaments that my grandma gave us (RIP grandma) a couple years ago, some unbreakable plastic balls, and our collection of “special” ornaments we get each year. Our family tradition is to go out and buy one ornament each that goes into the special collection. Every year it grows, and the pretty ornaments really bring back memories. This year I got a red glittery Moravian star, Jason got a sparkly silver reindeer, Jaymes got a purple hippo on skis, and Sierra got a Christmas Dora the Explorer ornament. Our collection, grown over the 6 years Jason and I have been married includes a horse, a dinosaur, a princess tiara, a cat wearing a santa hat, a bright silver metal reindeer with blue gems in its antlers… And the list goes on. Also included are the ornaments Jaymes makes each year at school- ornaments that look lame to others but totally fill me with pride. There’s a snowman made of dried glue and markers, a pilgrim (I don’t know why, not very Christmassy!), a reindeer, and something I’m not sure what it is.
I’ve always liked putting candy canes on the tree too, my mom always did that and it really does look pretty. But with Jaymes, I really wish we never had a single candy cane in the house. Candy canes are the bane of my existence. And of course he comes home from EVERYWHERE with the cursed things! School gives them out, therapies give them out, neighbors give them out, family gives them out. Even the lady at Walmart gives them away, and I accept them lest she think I’m a cruel, heartless parent who denies her children any sugary enjoyment.
Candy canes are tasty, I love them. As a kid I’d suck on the end until it became a point sharp enough to murder someone with. All my friends did this too, so I’m assuming it’s normal kid candy cane behavior and not some sign that I will one day go insane and start a gruesome candy cane massacre.
Jaymes does several aggravating things with these festive treats. His favorite candy cane activity is to beg one from me, then drop it on the floor from whatever height he can manage. When it hits the ground and splits into a billion and one pieces, Jaymes commences weeping and begging for another. If given another, he repeats the process. So I only give them to him outside, if at all. I’ve long lost pity for him, I mean, how bad can you feel for someone who asks for something then throws it on purpose?!
Another thing he does with his candy canes is to slurp on one until it is a little twig of stick red mess, then go into his spit swiping habit. As he wipes the saliva across his face, he is also wiping sugary, sticky, minty candiness across his face. We have 2 dogs, one is a yellow lab and the other is a long haired black mutt. No matter how well I clean, dog hair is always present. It’s in the corners, it’s on our clothes, and it hangs in the air like a yellow and black fog. And what does hair do, in the presence of a slimy, wet, sticky face? You guessed it- it sticks. So not only are Jaymes hands and face slimy and sticky from the combination of spit and candy, they’re also dog hair covered. Every time he eats a candy cane, I go from being the parent of a little boy to being the parent of a slobbering, mint scented werewolf. But I still give them to him at least a few times each year. Maybe I’m a masochist.