“It’s labor Day,” I say. “I was in labor with you. Today is my day.”
“As opposed to…” my husband says.
We’ve all been sick all weekend, sick and pathetic, quarantined in our house like lepers. Andy painted the bathroom awhile ago; it peeled, and he’s been sanding it down all weekend so he can start all over. I tried to help, but I felt like the frickin’ coal miner’s daughter it was so dusty. “I’ve really married down,” I said. He will not feel like a man until this damn bathroom is done. People say, you feel proud when you do it yourself, but I’d feel even more proud if I paid someone else to do it.
“What if I was in an egg and you had to sit on me?” my daughter says.
“I did, in a way. You were in my belly. And I sat and sat.”
“Yeah, I remember,” she says.
“Really? What was it like?”
“It was warm sometimes. And cold. It smelled like you. My finger smells like underwear.”
“What? Oh my god, you need to bathe.”
“I don’t mind about that.”
“Well, if your finger smells like underwear then you’ve been putting it in your underwear.”
“No!”
“Have you been?”
“Just on the outside,” she says. “Now hush about it already,” and then she stands up and takes a bow.

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