Barefoot, I pick my way gingerly around Legos, Hotwheels cars, and Barbies, inwardly cursing the disaster of my basement. The inward curse flies outward as I step square on shreds of stick smuggled in by a boy unsuccessful in his attempt to construct a harpoon. I hop-fall to a stuffed animal and pick pieces out of my tender instep.
“Why can’t these kids pick up their toys?” I snipe to myself, as I resume my trek across the random squares of carpet. I jerk innocent laundry from the washer to the dryer and slam the door, venting my thoroughly pissy mood.