My husband keeps trying to have sex with me.
For example, he cleaned off six shelves in our living room last night. Like, sorting stuff and organizing it and getting rid of crap we don’t need.
I know, you guys. I know.
That’s pretty extreme all by itself, but desperate people sometimes take desperate measures.
But wait! There’s MORE.
Our 2nd grader, Cael, keeps having anxiety attacks about his bear. Although Cael didn’t want to be separated from Beary, he also didn’t want to take Beary to school in his backpack because the school might burn down and he might not be able to get Beary out in time. I’d be concerned about his level of anxiety, irrational worry and general paranoia, except I don’t let my kids put their beds in front of the windows because, if I do, then I’ll be responsible when they to bleed to death after either a) the Big Quake hits or b) the burglar breaks in, shattering the window in a gazillion pieces, one of which will inevitably hit an artery. Protecting Beary from the inevitable school fire? That just makes sense. So, instead of taking Beary to school or leaving Beary home to get mauled by our dogs, my kid entrusted Beary to his dad.
Now, Greg could’ve done any number of things with Beary.
Shoved him in a briefcase.
Threw him in the trunk.
Forgotten him at home.
My husband is a wise, wise man after 20 years of marriage, so he took that bear to work with him and started sending me pictures.
Pictures ostensibly for our son.
Pictures like this:
Which are ADORABLE. And heartwarming. And endearing. And, well, are more likely to result in what we shall call Positive Reinforcement than, say, pinching my butt on the way up the stairs or groping my boob.
In conclusion, Well played, Greg. Well played.