It was six o'clock. I'd just spent the last two-and-a-half hours battling Christmas shopper traffic to try to find a phone card for one of my freelancers, supplies to make this year's Christmas cards, and sparkly red thread (don't ask), all while trying to beat the FedEx guy to the box so I could mail the phone card, and get home in time to pick Joe up at the train because I'd locked him out of the house, and feed and walk the dogs before I had to leave for agility class with Seamus at 6:30. I'd left a six-inch-high stack of forms on my desk (the dining room table) that I needed to enter into a database for work by today (it's still not done). For once I'd started the day feeling somewhat energetic, but I had a yucky nauseated feeling from the cheddar and sour cream potato chips I'd eaten a couple hours before (note to self: stop indulging cravings).
Anyway, it was now six o'clock. Joe got in the car and I hit the gas. The dogs weren't going to get a walk, but I'd at least have time to feed them. After a quick hello and a few minutes of silence, Joe says, "I think three's enough."
Uhh ... I have a sneaking suspicion, but regardless, I take the bait. "What are you talking about?"
"Three kids. I don't think we need four, that could be too many. But I think three is good."
"Uh-huh."
"Yeah, three's a good number..." at this point, I think he noticed the look on my face "... maybe two."
Right.
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