I like to think I give my husband a ton of credit–he’s a good guy, excellent father, hard worker, upstanding citizen, etc. I also leave him for days at a time with five children, a task he handles with far more grace than I ever would. 

Because of that, I try never to paint him (in print, anyway) as a bumbling doofus.


I’m feeding Roosevelt (a process that remains excruciatingly slow, given his desire to sip his bottles) and Brad is supposed to be getting the boys and J down. 

I see the boys in their pajamas, and tell J, who has run into Roo’s room to have me put on her diaper, to find daddy. Moments pass, and I hear the boys head upstairs with dessert and J settle in to our bed to watch cartoons before she goes to sleep.

Soon, Brad is stomping around the house, trying to find J’s pajamas, which she apparently has taken off, and the duct tape he handed her (presumably to hand to me when she asked me to put on her diaper, though I never saw it).

Finally, after he’s bounced in and out of Roo’s room multiple times, grumbling, I put the baby down and say, “Good god, if you won’t stop throwing a tantrum about it, I’ll help you look!” (See, these kids DO get to us by the end of the day).

I ask, “Where was she?”

Brad: “I don’t know. I gave her everything and she was laying in our bed, I guess.”

We walk into the bedroom, pull back the rumpled covers and–shocker–there sit the pajamas and duct tape.


If anything ever happened to me, they’d all be absolutely fine in almost every way. I know that, without question. But I can tell you this right now–they’d never find a damn thing again.

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