Domesticity

It is in the unhurried divesting of domesticity that I am flattered by the most sincerely amusing form of imitation: Kincaid has developed a profound affection for my Swiffer feather duster, refusing to surrender it even at bath time. More impressive, however, he (brilliantly?) wields the implement for its intended end- dust mites are at the mercy of his thirteen month-old dexterity. Am I proud? Fearful of his emasculation? Neither. My humble request is that my future (hand-picked) daughter-in-law demonstrate profound gratitude for equipping her husband with such skill by naming their first daughter in my honor. That will be sufficient reward.

Meanwhile, the exploitation of Kincaid's docile demeanor continues at the hand of his sister, who (as the picture portrays), wields her power over an adoring Caid to her transportive advantage. . . until, at last, she passes out (sometimes on the bathroom floor) from the sheer exhaustion of being inexhaustible for most of the day.