Keaton has swim team practice four nights a week. 

Every night, after practice, I throw the backpack she’s inadvertently left on the kitchen table down the steps towards her room and yell, “Keaton, swim bag!,” a shortened version of “For the love of all that is holy, empty the freaking thing out and dry your suit so it’s ready for tomorrow!” 
Tonight, we went through the same routine, except that I only yelled, “Keaton!” and then watched her stand on the bottom step, with the bag covering her toes, fumbling as I said, “Why do you think I called you over here?”
Blank stare.
It’s a miracle I haven’t lost my mind.

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