I have my car and my husband has his car. These are boundaries that our good marriage doesn't cross. But every once in a while there's a reason I have to use his car. I adore him. I hate his car. Because his car is a portal to hell.
I have three boys and my middle son is my wild man. He's three and a half but says he's six. He sits in the wrong direction in his seat at dinner. When he grows up he wants to be a bank robber. Last year he told me that "reading is disgusting". He's usually carefree and doesn't worry about what others think. However, recently he shared something that broke my heart.