Little known fact about me: Before I developed a sense of humor, I had a pretty volatile temper.
When my parents were out one night and my older brother was left in charge, we had some kind of altercation that ended with me putting my bedroom doorknob through the wall and the leg from my tiny desk chair through my brother’s bedroom door.
But that isn’t the instance that I want to talk about in this post.
No, this post is about an incident even earlier in my childhood (Mom, feel free to correct me in the comments if I don’t get this right).
I was two. The same age that my oldest daughter is now. It was Christmas and my aunt and uncle had given me a nice, little wooden rocking chair. It was a fine chair, perfect for my two-year-old height to rock away my toddler cares and/or woes.
But apparently, it was not what I had asked Santa for that year, because I was not happy with that rocking chair. Not happy at all.
A strong child, of both will and muscle, I picked up that nice, little rocking chair and threw it at the Christmas tree with all of my might. A lesser toddler would have missed, but my aim was true. The Christmas tree, like the walls of Jericho, came a-tumblin’ down, breaking about half of the ornaments in the process.
Many years have passed, but I still have that rocking chair. My two-year-old seems to like it better than I did initially, so that’s good. But we just put up our Christmas tree…