It's no secret that I'm about the un-wife-iest wife there is. I don't really cook. I don't do much of the laundry. I abhor scrubbing bathrooms and vacuuming and really try to avoid doing dishes. I certainly don't usually mow the yard. I am, however, very good at making lists of things for Fred to do.
Hmmm. I'm not sure why he keeps me around.
Oh, yes, my secret treasure. (No, not that kind of treasure, pervs.)
That, my friends, is another story for another time.
At the end of last week I started to drag out the pots and pans to make some spaghetti for my little family of three when Elliot came up the stairs to the kitchen, stopping mid-step.
E: Mom! What are you doing?
A: I'm cooking dinner.
E: NO! What are you doing?
A: What?! I'm cooking dinner.
E: YOU not make dinner. Only Daddy make dinner.
A: (Loud enough for Daddy to hear) You know, Elliot, despite common belief, your mother can actually cook.
F: (Really laughing)
E: No. (Walks back downstairs)