This year I planned to be more patient with my kids. But then I woke up New Year's Day wanting to punch Michael's lights out. Before you judge me, allow me to state the severity of his crime: For some reason he thought it would be a good idea to stand right next to his sleeping brother and sister (who both made it to within half an hour of the new year with eyes wide open) and yell, "Mom!!!!!! Moooooommmmm!" just in case they were getting any ideas about sleeping in. First activity of the year: Give my son a talking-to through gritted teeth. Terrific.
After I recovered from my bout of grouchiness (about 1.5 hours, if my calculations are correct) I wanted to rewind and start over, but then I remembered that the day before I had spent the afternoon internalizing a total personal failure. Also, I got hit in the head by a snowmobile.
All right, I didn't really get "hit" so much as "dumped off and rolled over" as David and I tumbled down a hill in dramatic fashion and the snowmobile came bouncing after us. It was just like a movie, only there weren't any superfluous explosions or Foley artists whacking celery stalks and neither of us felt any need to let fly with a totally unnecessary F-word.
We came out (mostly) unscathed and very grateful it wasn't more serious, although I did get a pretty awesome goose egg on the back of my head and David's hair literally froze on top of his head. It was like Dr. Doofenshmirtz meets Arctic blast. So cool.
But I think I'm done with snowmobiles for awhile. And by "awhile" I mean "forever" unless someone bribes me with a vacation house in Paris. I'd ride a snowmobile again for that. Of course I'd probably also do it for some chocolate, but hey, it's a new year. Dream big.
Oops, I mean "dream small". Like size 8.
One of these years I'll get there...