For the past several years my New Year's resolution has been: Be nicer. Strive to become a more patient, kinder, gentler woman.
It's not going so well.
Last night, Day One of the sweet new me, I went into my son's room to put something away and was greeted by an explosion of toys and books and Christmas presents past. The electric keyboard we bought him for Christmas sat atop a minefield of Lego projects in various states of completion, a broken electric card shuffler, his book bag spewing books and papers, two pairs of inside-out jeans, stuffed animals. His desk was hidden beneath a mountain of books. A box for his light saber had come crashing off the shelf onto his closet floor.
I exploded. "I don't know how you can take this!" Reader, I was not speaking in modulated or calm tones. I think I may have been perspiring. Threatening to commence Operation Leave it On the Curb: Toy Edition, I picked up a Star Wars toy the size of a labrador retriever. My daughter retreated to her bedroom, where she lay clutching her unicorn. My husband appeared and spirited away the light saber to a storage closet.
I attempted to collect myself, remembering, too late, my hours-old resolution. After some deep breaths, I returned to my son's room and began giving him saner instructions. "It's...good...that...you...are...a little...calmer," he said, super slowly. I started laughing.
"I'm glad you like my comedy, Mommy," he said.