There had to be a better way. I wasn’t asking for the Brooklyn Bridge or the moon on a platter. All I wanted was one simple change; a little old tweak in technique using his muscular physique. That was all.
The other day, I mentioned it. “I don’t care,” I said casually, “if you do a complicated aerial maneuver on your way in.” I peered at him. “If you’d like to do a seven-point dive, be my guest. I’ll even score it with placards from my spot on the pillow. But I don’t see why the covers must be flung to kingdom come when you crawl in.”
He barked out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, then covered it up with a cough. I sighed. Apparently, I was going to have to host a seminar titled, “How to Slip Into Bed Without Disturbing Your Spouse.” If I served brownies in between workshops, I thought, I’d have a fair to middlin’ chance of signing him up.
There was another one I’d been thinking of hosting, not for him, but for his sons. And it had to do with the laundry.
Just when I thought I’d figured out my job description, having counted up all the hats I wore as a mother and wife, I stubbed my toe on another one. This time, it came from a doctor.
“The patient,” he said as I typed along, “works for the federal government as a small-arms instructor.”
I stopped. Huh. Well, now. Hadn’t I been a small-arms instructor myself, ever since 1989 when the first little doober’d shown up? Why, yes. Yes, I had.
For years, I’d instructed small arms, teaching them how to button a shirt, to tie a shoe. To make a bed and pick up their toys. To share their trucks, wash up for dinner and, for Pete’s sake, to “stop hitting your brother” with those arms. All of this and more with nary a government paycheck. Rats.