We're in what?

I'll just come out and say it: I was mad. Hopping mad.  Here's why:

It was Monday evening. I came home from work and did the following (some items were actually done simultaneously):
  1. Emptied my daughter' backpack.
  2. Fed the dogs.
  3. Fed the cat.
  4. Took a load of laundry out of the dryer and brought it upstairs to fold/sort/put away.
  5. Made dinner (black bean quesadillas).
  6. Made my daughter's lunch for the following day.
  7. Cleaned the toilets.
  8. Washed the dinner dishes, including the griddle on which I'd made the quesadillas.
Meanwhile, my other half played poker online. The kid wanted him to come outside and push her on her tree swing (it's the disk kind where you sort of wrap your legs around the rope and balance yourself, so it's hard for her to maneuver on her own). He told her he would be right out.  She sat on the swing for a while, singing to herself (I was keeping an eye on her through the window), and finally he went out there to give her a push.

Ninety seconds later, they came back inside. "She fell off the swing and doesn't want to swing anymore."  I was highly suspicious. P grabbed the remote control and pulled up Netflix so that the kid could watch Strawberry Shortacke. I gritted my teeth and then . . . I lost it.

"Okay, for starters, you guys were only outside for a minute or two.  Also, I was watching something."  I had been watching a show on the DVR as I folded the laundry.

He fired back: "I thought you were going to the gym! If I'd known it was going to take you this long, I would've mowed the lawn!"

He always claims that I am somehow preventing him from doing things around the house. He can't stain the deck because I put a plastic chair on it. He can't fix the back door because "it will just get that way again."

I took a deep breath. "I would love to go to the gym but I am too busy folding your underwear and scraping cheese off your dinner plate!"

Just then, a little voice piped up from the couch.  "Guys! You're in love! You don't have to fight!"

I opened my mouth to say something. I had quite a few points I wanted to make to my other half. Instead, I spun on my heel and walked out of the living room. I thought I might start laughing and I was too mad to laugh. I finished my chores and grabbed my gym bag.  Just then, a miracle happened. My husband said this to me:

"I'm sorry, she's right. I just had a bad day at work."

You see, he is required by his DNA (passed straight to him by his father, who was God's gift to knowledge) never to be wrong about anything. So, this was a rare admission indeed. I nodded and headed to the gym.

I guess it was one of those "out of the mouths of babes" moments. Next week we celebrate 14 years of marriage (and on June 6th we'll have been together 19 years). And apparently, we're in looooooove.