Son of FB

My (mostly) affectionate moniker for my husband is FB, which stands for Fussy Bastard. Although I stay at home with our son, I don't iron his clothes because is too picky about the creases being "just so." Perhaps it was his stint in the Navy that made him so concerned about his pants, but I think he is just wired this way. He just has very specific ideas about how most everything should be done.

He never makes a sandwich and puts it on a paper towel to eat in front of the TV. He plates each sandwich creation with love on a glass plate, adding tasty garnishes of thinly slices pickles and tortilla chips surrounding a remoulade container of spicy salsa.

Give him 15 minutes and he will whip himself up pasta primavera from scratch. Given an hour to feed just myself I will eat oatmeal. If I am feeling particularly peppy, I will go for PBJ. I'm just not that into food --never mind how it looks. Once again, he likes things "just so."

Two days ago our 3 year old son asked me for juice. I said "Juice box? or regular juice?" and he replied -- and I'm not kidding here -- that he wanted COLD juice... in a cup... with no handles.

And I thought -- OMG. Son of FB is born!!