Just when John thinks he's competent in areas stereotypically (and typically) maternal, I must move in, swiftly, to prove him wrong.
Take packing up the school backpacks. This morning.
Because I am very busy re-gifting, moving piles of cookies that somebody else baked onto a big platter to take in to the children's school, John offers to load the backpacks.
He will do it incorrectly, of course.
"That would be great, honey," I say.
Not one to let pathological interpersonal dynamics go unrewarded, Scarlett screams: "NO!! Don't let him! He'll forget something!"
But John is certain. He is confident, unbeatable.
I grill him as I totter out the door under all those cookies: Snow pants? Secret Santa envelope? A mitten for every hand? Hats? Teachers' gifts?
"It's all there."
I shake the entire drive to school. And then . . .
"Merrick's shoes! I bet he forgot those! Scarlett?"
She is already joyfully, triumphantly, ripping through that backpack. "Nope! He forgot the shoes! He forgot something--again!"
Victory.
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