I walk down the candy aisle with Presley. We left Leighton in charge of her sister and brother because they can’t see that what we’re buying is what they’ll find in their stockings on Christmas morning.
“How did we get stuck with stocking stuffers?” I follow Presley.
“Why are you complaining? This is easy. We’ll get some candy, then I’ll go get some small stuff to fill in the gaps.” She stops and looks over the labels of some of the candy.
Candy is candy. You’re not going to find vitamins in one versus the other.
“Why does Marla even give the kids a stocking? That’s the parents’ responsibility.”
She huffs and drops both candy bags, turning around to face me. This isn’t good. My wife can be scary when she’s upset. Like the time I off-handily mentioned Micah, our youngest, was an oops.
