Sunday night, Ismael stood in the living room dorking around with a pair of glasses. Of course, the following dialogue is provided entirely by yours truly. My husband…he doesn’t talk much… leaves more for me.
Hey there, what’cha doing? Is it important? Oh great. Carry on then.
::grabbing his arm, shaking all over, and yelling directly in his ear::
MommyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyMOMMOMOMOM….apple juice! apppppplllllleeeeee juiiiiiicccccccccccceeeeeeee eeeeempppppppptyyyyyyyy MOMMMYYYYYYYYYYYY MOMMMYYY JJJJUIIIIICCCCCEEEEE
Now. Imagine boiling water for broccoli and hamburger frying in a pan, all in your hands. Now you know what it’s like to cook dinner in this house. My work here is done.