I’ve noticed something lately.
It’s true. There’s no point denying it. Apparently, it’s just part of my nature, part of who I am.
And my husband, he responds. He wants to fix things, to make everything better (probably to stop me from complaining).
My big gripe, as of late, is about how much (or actually, how little) time I’ve had to write. The kind of real, sit down, no kids tugging at my sleeve or screaming in the background, time. Quiet time. So...I complained. And my wonderfully sweet, and well-meaning, husband decided to help me out.
He took the kids to basketball, he did the dishes, and he attempted to do the laundry. And herein lies the rub. I say “attempted” because, as flattered as I am that he thinks I’m actually that small, I find it extremely difficult to fit into my seven year old’s teeny-tiny (size XXS) panties when he inevitably puts them into my underwear drawer.
Plus, they totally pinch and ride.
And frankly, too-small Barbie briefs are never a good look for any woman over, say, 30.
So, thanks honey, but I’ll take care of the laundry from here on out!