I’m sitting at the computer, enjoying a leisurely (read here: lazy) card game while nursing Addra, when a voice sounds from across the room: “You can only play for one minute. Then you have to work on your blog.”
Me, whining: “But I don’t have any arms.” (Addra’s head is occupying the crook of my right arm, so I suppose technically my left one is still free.)
“Then blog your lack of arms.”
Mumble, mumble, whine.
“I’m sure you can hunt-and-peck a blog post.”
“Yuck, no.” I begin to extract my arm from beneath my daughter.
“Blog what we did today.”
More whining. “You’re such a tyrant.”
“Then blog your tyrant husband!”
“Ptui.” I then call him something really mature, something I hope my three-year-old picks up on. Something like “poohead.” And I finish my card game and start to write.
Having a fantastic husband really puts a damper on the quest for mediocrity.
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