My mild-mannered, long-suffering, tolerant husband told me last night that I’m a disappointment to parents everywhere.
OK, maybe Greg didn’t technically tell me, you know, with words, but he spoke volumes with his eyes. The red laser beams shooting from them were my first clue. When they burned “you and the boy are enmeshed to the point of being mutually parasitic” into the wall, I was on to him.
To be precise, I suppose Greg’s exact words were, “Seriously? Wrap yourself around his little finger much?” But he totally meant the rest, which is exactly why precision is a such a poor story-telling tool. You guys, there was sighing involved.
And all because he
caught found me in the laundry room, huddled over a pair of clean boy undies, rubbing them vigorously between my hands to warm them with friction before my preschool child (who – hello! – understandably didn’t want to put cold undies on his boy bits) donned them.
The child might have returned the undies to me once or thrice because I hadn’t yet warmed them to his satisfaction.
You say pathetic. I say practical.
It’s such a fine line.