No time for baked potatoes. I went back to the freezer for Tater Tots. John tipped back his bottle, watching me, a warm look in his eyes.

I felt a little flutter of pleasure. Not that I could do anything about it now.

While the oven preheated, I unzipped the kids’ book bags to retrieve their snack containers. The unmistakable whiff of poop wafted from a knotted grocery bag.

“Oh, that,” John said. “DJ had an accident at school today.”

“Thanks. I see that.”

Gingerly, I untied the bag. There were the sweatpants DJ had worn this morning. His socks. His . . . everything. I took a deep breath—big mistake—and threw it all in the washing machine.

“Oh, and somebody’s mom wants to know if you can send in three dozen reindeer treats.”

The microwave beeped. Schools ran on the volunteer power of parents. Of mothers. Momma, with four daughters and a hundred goats to raise, was always baking or making or buying or selling something.

“Of course.” I set the washer to presoak.

“I figured that’s what you’d say.” John sipped his beer. “So . . . Treats for reindeers. What is that, like, carrots?”

I smiled, my mind already leaping ahead. “Carrot cake, maybe.” Carrot muffins? With powdered sugar instead of icing. Without nuts, obviously. Something kid-friendly that wouldn’t trigger allergies. “Thanks for letting me know.”

I washed my hands and opened the dishwasher, still loaded with clean dishes. Nothing to worry about now. First we had to get through Thanksgiving. I yanked open a drawer to put the flatware away.

John shifted out of my way. “The teacher said their class is doing some kind of skit.”

I nodded. “Next month. They’re singing ‘Jingle Bells.’” We’d been practicing in the car all week. “With reindeer costumes.” The costumes were done, thank goodness, antler headbands and white bibs sewn onto brown sweatshirts. The twins looked adorable.

John grinned. “I’d like to see that. I told her I’d try to take an early lunch that day, catch the performance.”

I grabbed another handful from the dishwasher. “That’s great, honey.”

The teachers loved it when fathers came to the preschool programs.

John came up behind me. “So it’s a date.”

“Sure.” I sorted flatware. Spoon, spoon, spoon, fork . . . “I’ll meet you there.”

He rested a hand on my waist. Nuzzled my neck. His lips were cool from the beer. “You feel great.” His standard opening line for fooling around.

I dropped a knife. “John,” I said. Amused. Protesting.

Daisy ran into the kitchen. “Elsa, Mommy. Elsa.”

I listened to the soundtrack from the family room. “The movie’s over, sweetie. It’s time to go upstairs now.” I stooped for the knife and laid it on the counter. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I promised John.

He scooped up Daisy. She clung to his shoulders as he pretend-chomped her fingers, making her squeal with delight. DJ ran in, drawn by their noise, jealous of John’s attention.

“Okay, everybody settle down,” I said mildly. “It’s bedtime.”