It’s been a long and demanding week, friends, but the missus arrived back home over the weekend. I was relieved, but not nearly to the degree that my young daughters were. They were well tired of being sent to school looking like 1930’s-era Dust Bowl survivors. What can I say, I’m not skilled at laundry nor at braids. Even simple barrettes threaten and confuse me, which must be why I can never remember to apply any before school. Friday morning I became momentarily irritated when my 3-year-old walked straight into a hedge. “Joan, can’t you look where you’re going?” I said. A single eye glared back at me through a tangled mass of greasy hair.
I can only imagine what Mrs. Pastry thought coming home on Saturday. A few days alone with me was all it took to transform two bright and dainty young ladies into filthy, bedraggled dwarves. They ran to her like puppies from a kennel. It must have been satisfying on a lot of levels. Everyone likes to know they’re needed. Now she and the girls can get back to life as usual, and I can get back to what I do best: avoiding dressing and primping girls.