The other day, Younger and my husband joined me in the cleaning of the house. Because Younger wanted a video game and the only way I agreed to take him to buy a video game was in a trade — his effort for my driver’s license.
His dad, on the other hand, is just an easy mark.
But as I rushed down the stairs in one of my many trips between floors, I stumbled to an awkward halt on the bottom stop.
My husband, one hand automatically and rhythmically and blindly pushing a mop over the hardwood floor, glanced up from the video he was watching on the phone in his other hand. “What?” As I blinked at him, trying to find my words, he added, a bit defensively, “I’m mopping.”
“Yes, you are,” I agreed, nodding my head. “You are mopping. Yes, you are.”
And I turned into the hallway without finding any additional words. Because help is, well, help, even if it is cheap help.
And I guess I can’t say he wasn’t worth the money.
Well, I could say it.
But I won’t.