Today Tage and I were in town to take Ola to the vet. We were in the car waiting to make a left turn and there was a man who looked as though he wanted to cross the street. I stopped to wait, but then he stopped. I started moving again, then he started, too. I stopped again, and he stopped. Exasperated, I said out loud, “Are you going to cross or what?” as I waved to him to go.

From the backseat Tage asked, “Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, just that guy,” I answered.

“That guy,” Tage said, then waited a beat. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who he is.”

“But what’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“The guy … what’s his name?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“WHAT’S HIS NAME??”

Sigh. “Joe.”

“Okay. Joe.”

I had just finished cooking dinner and everything was still sitting on the stove. Petra was fussy/tired/hungry so I went to lie down on the bed with her and called out to the kids, “Dad will help you guys dish up.”

Tage came in looking indignant. “We’re not guys. We’re children.”

“Pardon me,” I said. “Dad will help you children dish up.”