Vignette from a Weekday Afternoon

I stand in the kitchen stirring the pot. My eyes are glazed over. 
My man walks in from the day and I lean over the bubbling pot to kiss his lips. ("Every marriage is either going forward or backward…let's keep going forward," I remind him.)
He's had to step over a plethora of boots, coats, toys, dirty diapers tied in Walmart bags waiting to be taken out to the garage trash. 
Two kids sit at the back door making "music" blowing on a harmonica and banging on "drums." It's just white noise.
He asks me, "Who died?"
I look at him puzzled.
He has come in, stepped over the kids, kissed my lips, set his lunch container down and his mind has done something mine has not: tuned into the radio.
"Oh! I forgot that was on," I say wearily.
Apparently NPR has been reporting on some famous person's death.
I. STILL. DON'T. KNOW. WHO.
And I laugh as I tell him, "Ya know, I put that on when I begin dinner…thinking I'll enjoy listening to something intelligent. Something that will remind me I am a thinking adult. Something that will lift me out of potty training, medical need monitoring, settling squabbles, reminding people to do chores and checking on homework. Reminding me that I hold a place on planet Earth."
Then I realize: I am totally in my own Land of Make Believe.

That is all.