Mr. Husband and I have a running joke. Well, not so much a joke as a "He's Mean" sort of thing. He claims that I am a nag. He will add that I need to turn down the Nagometer and get off my Nagasawki. Naaaaaaaaaag, naaaaaaaaag, naaaaaaaaag (said in Motorcycle Shifting Voice). I have no idea what he is talking about.

I do, however, find extreme pride in the fact that Alexis has, at the tender age of 2 1/2, already dialed her Nagometer all the way up to 10 and aimed that sucker at Mr. Husband.

Yesterday we wandered through the drive-thru as Starbucks, as we are frequently wont to do on a Sunday afternoon. As the barista handed Mr. Husband my Grande Non-Fat Iced Caramel Macchiato out the window, he somehow didn't get a good enough grip on the sort of attached straw. It went tumbling to the ground. The barista handed Mr. Husband a new straw and we trudged along our merry way.

Except.

Apparently She Who Pretends Not to Hear Me has actually heard me utter the words "don't put your trash on the ground." She was APPALLED that Mr. Husband had the audacity to throw that straw on the ground and even MORE APPALLED that he didn't take two seconds to pick it up. She would. not. let. it. go.

As we drove down the highway, she could be heard lecturing him from the back. "Where's the paper?" "Throw that away!" "Daddy is bad." "Daddy, pick that paper up." Over and over and over and over she scolded him for his sloppy ways. He tried to appease her by apologizing, he tried to promise never to do it again, he tried everything.

I just laughed.

It's all good, just so long as she doesn't point the Nagometer at me.

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