I made butter this weekend, which meant fresh buttermilk, which meant ranch dressing. Then I kept going: bread, taco seasoning, barbeque sauce. Somewhere in there I told the kids I would have made an excellent farm wife.

Sparkle said we would absolutely have Highland cows.

I asked who was going to milk them.

Romy (15, currently on his fourth girlfriend of the calendar year) said absolutely not him. He was not touching any udders. Ever.

I gave him a puzzled look.

He said, “I wouldn’t have any idea where they’ve been.”

Lulu had friends over. Friends who do not have older brothers. So I said nothing.

That was a gift, and I had to let it go. Somebody give me a medal.