It was January. I was 3 months pregnant. The house was a maze of white walls and less than white Berber carpeting. We bought the house under the premise that the two walls encasing the kitchen would have to be torn out. Today seemed like a good day. Shelby was at preschool, John at work, and I was scaling the kitchen cabinets with a hammer and a crowbar. I started with the wall cabinets and smashed apart the stinky pressed wood shelves to the best of my hormonal ability. There was something so satisfying about whacking a hammer through anything within my reach. It conjured up childhood memories of the pleasurable crash of a rock flying through single pane glass. Grandpa's old junk yard was where I really mastered my fastball, hurling rocks through the windows of the abandoned shed, the broken down dump trucks. I knew it was so bad, but it felt SO good. I clambered along the kitchen counter tops, using the drill only to remove things I had slammed at least 20 times with the hammer first. Shelves, cabinet doors, counter tops, tile floor-OOPS. Guess the ceramic tile floor would have to go, too. By the time John came home the kitchen looked like the aftermath of a category 5 hurricane. And the driveway, where I dragged my wooden victims, looked even worse. I am woman, hear me ROAR!