Once a year, my husband tries to grow a beard. He has not succeeded mostly because his facial hair tends to sprout in patches, which, as it grows longer, looks remarkably similar to the coat of a dog afflicted with mange. Being the supportive wife that I am, I mock him endlessly when he makes these attempts. I don’t know why he puts up with me.

It’s funny how differently things look to a four-year-old.

Small was on the toilet, doing some deep thinking. “Daddy?” he called, “How come you got-th hairth on you fayth and arm?”

My husband grinned at me and wandered into the bathroom to talk to his son. “Well, buddy, that’s just the way God made me.”

“Huh,” Small said, disappointed. “Den God made me pwain.”

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