Last night, we celebrated, as promised, #2's week of dry beds with root beer floats. It was a big deal for the kids, with lots of build-up as we checked off each pee-less morning on the calendar. And #2 was beaming as we gathered 'round the table to celebrate his little victory.
No sooner had the foamy top started to flow over the mugs, than the doorbell rang. It was the ward genealogy expert, here for a tutorial that my wife had forgotten about. My wife disappeared into the office without a word, and didn't emerge for an hour and a half -- long after the dishwasher had run its cycle the kids, having given up on the hope of their mom's reappearance, were tucked into bed.
I floated some out-of-context "let the dead bury their dead" by her. She couldn't come up with a credible case for prioritizing dead ancestors over living posterity, but never actually admitted that she'd handled the situation wrong.
Hopefully she won't be doing sealings when we celebrate 4 weeks with a family bowling outing.
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