My wife doesn’t listen to me, so I think it’s time to offer my services more generally.

First, because it happened merely moments ago, wives and mothers of our great nation: you do not get to leave for your shitty job (whose money we don’t need) and have some soft “miss you” moment with the kids. That’s for the actually poor (not just the envious) and/or the single mothers who have a job or three because they don’t want their precious little babies pregnant at 16 too.

Next, we need to talk about envy. Yeah, yeah. The Ten Commandments forbid envy. But it was uninspired men who clarified the problem with envy. The problem is not what happens on the inside of the envious. Envy is a problem because of what the envious do as their life’s main work: sabotage.

Case in point: a wife/mother who works a shitty, low-paying job when she doesn’t have to and uses the money to keep up with the Kardashians and mega church wives. This isn’t about money. It isn’t about control. It is envy. She suffers from envy and is sabotaging the entire family—her own children most importantly.

There’s something else, you terrible wives and mothers of America. Take a first aid course. Or join Scouts. But you need to do something to stop the incessant and melodramatic overreacting to childhood.

Proceed at your own risk, reader. What you are about to read is true and terrifying.

****

So I hear J- screaming. Ag- and An- are both upstairs with him. I had just told An- to shut the bathroom door and it soon became clear that she didn’t watch out for J-’s fingers.

Next thing I know, my wife is running up the stairs as if it’s D-Day and someone just called “Corman!!”

I sat at the table, shaking my head and dreading this totally unnecessary scene.

A moment later and J- is still crying. My wife is now frantic.

I can’t completely suppress my humanity, and I am curious if there is about to be some blood or a clearly distorted digit.

I finally see the boy’s hand as my wife carries him down the stairs and into view and it is…completely normal looking.

He is still crying.

My wife has now grabbed some ice from the freezer and is trying to apply it to his hand.

J- is not having it. He is constantly ripping himself from her grip and every time the slower-moving particles approach his hand, he shrieks louder as only toddlers are wont to do.

Next, (when will it end, I wonder?) my wife grabs a towel and tries again with the ice, this time, though, insulated by a grimy kitchen towel.

From upstairs, to the kitchen table, and now the stairs, J- is holding his ground. Rather, he is running the show and displaying a sinewy—if still covered in baby fat—wile that impresses even me. Given the situation, I am compelled to believe it comes from his man-mind.

“Where is your instinct, woman?!” I finally erupt. “He doesn’t want the ice. He isn’t hurt. Why would you keep fighting against him?”

Catechizing rabbits.

“How about this? I’ll stop if you can answer a question. What does ice do?”

Crickets.

“J-.”

The boy stops crying (face is still a slobbery mix of tears and snot and spit) at the sound of reason and calm.

“J- just go downstairs and play.”

He turns.

“Or if you want to go upstairs and play with your trains, that’s fine too.”

He chooses trains and heads up the stairs, hands and feet in action.

Pause the story here and ask yourself, “Why would the mother not worship her husband and the father at this point?”

Back to the story.

“Nag nag nag.” (I honestly don’t remember what she said.)

“What does the ice do?”

And now, as typical, she believes I am belittling her in front of the kids and fires off on that accord.

I turn to A- (who had apparently taken a seat beside me at the table to enjoy the show) and say, “Ice reduces swelling.”

A- turns to her mom and begins, “Momma, ic-.”

I stop her. “No, A-. I am teaching you.”

****

What, wives, in the hell are you thinking ice does? You saw some doctor use it once? Does it cure COVID?

In short, my beloveds, I will not feel bad for being aware that you can somehow look past a screaming child in order to apply, what to you, is merely an old wives’ tale remedy to a non-injury.