“Kathy, when are you gonna get a husband?” Maddy – age six, diminutive, fiercely bright – demands from the Volvo’s child seat. Dawn, driving, grins.
“Tell me, what are husbands good for?” I answer.
“Woodworking,” Maddy says confidently.
Dawn sighs. Years of diligent household egalitarianism rendered futile. “What else does Daddy do?” she prompts.
Maddy scents a trap. “Husbands cook and they sleep in the same bed as you.” Touché.
“Women can do woodworking,” I say, “I saw you hammering.” Dawn winks: can Maddy keep outfoxing us?
“You make pizza.”
Maddy is affronted. “Kathy! I don't want to be your husband.”