Doug is glued to his computer and will remain so until Christmas eve. I am on auto pilot on the outside while my insides are tied in knots. I sent Doug a long, rambling hysterical list of worries. “…and Amy keeps melting down and we’re out of diapers and waiting for you to say it’s okay to do the Christmas shopping is making me physically ill because there’s less than a week and the house is filthy and Evan messes it up faster than I can clean it and we need groceries and I don’t know what we’re serving company and I got a note from one of the teachers today and I offended someone else and you fell asleep last night before Evan.”

His reply? “Spaghetti.”