Six days ago, UPS delivered a delightful box of holiday accents to my home.
Six days ago, I removed said accents from their oversized cardboard casing and offered it to my kids.
Six days ago I made a very bad decision, because six days have gone by, and that f@$king box is still in my living room.
It’s no surprise really, the same thing happens every time a box large enough for my kids to sit in enters our home. I, with the innocence and coordination of a baby deer, bound into the room loudly proclaiming “I’ve got a surprise for you” and upon seeing said box, my children respond with the kind of intense excitement usually reserved for Christmas morning.
So begins the tumultuous relationship between myself, and that box.
Over the past six days, that box has been a car, a cave, a house, a prison and a poorly crafted rocket ship. It has been colored on, painted over and essentially bedazzled into submission. It has proven to be the source of great fun, the catalyst for many tears and of course, a major pain in my ass.