Things Break...

Have you ever been so mad you wanted to break something?  That happened to me on Sunday and you know what I did?  After standing in my driveway arguing with the kiddo about yard work, I went in to my house and grabbed a small porcelain saucer then I marched right back outside and smashed it against the concrete of my front walkway. 

“What did you do that for?” the kiddo snapped, a look of confusion crossing his face as he stared at me.  Then he watched as I frantically scrambled to pick up all of the pieces I could.  It was some of my finest acting.  When I turned and asked him to hold out his hands, he looked at me as if I’d finally lost the last of my marbles.

“I'm so sorry I broke this plate,” I offered half-heartedly in my best whining-like-my-teenage-does voice.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it!” he responded.

“No, it doesn't. So when you're rude and condescending and you glare at me and roll your eyes and bark one word answers and look at me with a face that says please stop talking and just leave me alone, a quick and easy sorry doesn't fix it.”

We were fighting over chores that should've been done on Friday but the kiddo had better things to do that afternoon so he put off his work until Sunday.  When I reminded him of my expectations Saturday night, I got a smile and a no problem and I knew right then this would be war.  No problem coming from my kiddo is always, in fact, a problem.  It came as little surprise when he snarled at me after church when I asked him to tackle his chores before he got involved in other things.

Yet it wasn’t until he flounced around huffing and sighing for nearly half an hour before doing what turned out to be a barely passable job that I lost it.  So I smashed the plate and gave my speech about half hearted work and weak I’m sorry’s before heading back inside and leaving him to redo all of his work for the second time. 

Fast-forward three hours.  The yard work was done and the kiddo was milling about the house somewhere.  I’d moved on from trying to make huge parenting leaps and worrying about raising a responsible human to decorating the house for May--the Indy 500.  I knew I was carrying too much in my arms when I gathered the box of ornaments destined for the tree in the foyer, but I thought I could handle it.  Until I stumbled over the stupid gate we keep up in the hall to help corral our four small terriers.  So down they went.  The entire box.  My special order miniature checkered flags I waited half a year to receive hit the hardwood with gusto, shattering into a million pieces while their black and white counterparts, miniature glass balls that won't come around again until December, joined the party.  As I knelt in the floor of my entryway and sucked in enough air to stave off crying, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“I didn't mean to be such a brat about my chores. I shouldn’t have put it off.  I’m not mad at you.  I’m mad at me and I’m really sorry.  And I’m sorry about your ornaments,” my kiddo added, patting my back just like I’d done for him so many times in the past fifteen years.  “You didn’t mean to drop them.  Right?” he added softly.

“Right, sweetie.  This was an accident,” I laughed.  “Apology accepted, by the way,” I added.  “Now will you please go get me the broom and dustpan?”

I