The other day I asked my Sweet Pickle, "Do you think these jeans make Mama look fat?"
[Right here, you're probably thinking, what is wrong with her?! I asked because I really wanted to know. I know that he adores me to the skies and loves me to the moon and back and back again, and I also know that if I really want his assessment, I can ask him. He'll tell me.]
So I asked my 5 year old because I wanted an honest opinion that I could believe.
[I couldn't ask Stretch because that's never a safe question for the husband. It's cruel and unusual punishment. He can't win that. If he says no, he's obviously lying (because we never believe their compliments, or our mother's). But who in his right mind says yes?! An evil and cruel and horrid man who would be thenceforward banished to the wastelands forever.]
"Um, yeah, a little," saith my Sweet Sweet Pickle.
He walks up behind me, slaps me on my left cheek and then my right, saying "here, and here." Then he walks around the front and slaps me once on each thigh and says again, "here, and here."
He was quite nice about it, too - jaunty and with a smile in his voice. Not even a hint of mean--not a shred. Which makes me love his openness that much more.
He's my Mirror Mirror on the Wall. My lie detector.
If only he was as reliable when there's an altercation between himself and his seester....