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Rebecca

I once read a lengthy debate about whether or not a wife should pack her husband’s suitcase when they’re going on a trip. The whole thing amused me; you can tell a lot about a woman by whether or not she’s willing to pack for her husband.

My mother, she would have packed for my dad. Right before Levi and I got married, we were flying back to New York on an early-morning flight. Just as we pulled out of the driveway, at something like 4:30 in the morning, my sweet mother runs after us in her bathrobe and hands me a bottle of nail polish. She suggests that I paint my toes and then leans in to whisper, “He deserves that.”

Oh but we thought it was rich. So old fashioned my mother! Since then Levi loves to comment on things he “deserves,” at which point I accidentally drop his dinner plate on the floor or put one of his nice sweaters in the dryer.

It’s funny though, how much I want Levi to open doors for me. I love it when he insists on schlepping the groceries home while I twirl a dum-dum between my teeth and talk with my hands. Even though it is “our” money, I always like it when he reaches for the check.

And just so he won’t stop doing these things, I pack his lunch and do his laundry and make him dinner. I clean the apartment and ask him to take the lid off of jars.  I boss him around a bit and tell him he can’t spend so much money.

So yes, I pack for my husband—and slip a bottle of pink nail polish in the side pocket. 

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