Why We Need Counseling

This morning, upon waking, I assumed my rightful place on the porcelain throne. Imagine my surprise when the usual view of sink and tub was interrupted by this:

How sweet to see The Boss's foam letters sticking to the back of the tub in this message of morning cheer. Since I wasn't the one who left it there, and since The Boss can't spell, there was only one person left whom I could logically assume was the source of this tub talk. Logically, I said. Don't think for a minute that it didn't cross my mind that the sentiment came in the wake of a friendly poltergeist's midnight dip. It seemed about as likely as The Partner pulling off something so darned romantic.

"Awww," I shouted to The Partner, who was on the computer in the den. There was no reaction. "Awwwwwww," I shouted again, louder.

He peered in the bathroom.

"Did you do that?" I pointed, all giddy and smiling.

"Oh, that." His look was such that I knew some good smart-assery was coming. "Yeah, it was me. But only because I had to edit what The Boss wrote. Our daughter is really jaded, you know. Do you want to see her original message?"

I played along. There'd be icy bathwater in hell the day my thirteen month old could say, let alone spell, anything other than dog, look, thank you, or hi. "Suuuuuure," I said.

He walked over to the tub, overstepping my feet on the shaggy green mat in front of the toilet. Reaching in, he pulled up two more letters that had collected near the drain with a host of other water toys. He put them in their proper place. "I don't know where she gets these ideas," he said, shaking his head in mock consternation. Then he stepped to the side so I could read the updated text.

I looked. Then I sighed.