You know that moment when your wife says. “Oh no, we have a problem,” and your heart sinks like an anvil in the ocean with the memory of how whenever it’s time for fix-it husband, you’re all mittens and hiccups, and you look at the catastrophe mocking you so that it feels like you’re in the junior high locker room again, with cool jock Dillon pointing at you and making jokes, and there you are staring at the scattered mess soon to be yet one more humiliation?

And then you know that unicorn moment when you clearly see what needs to be done and have the tools to do it and the tools (eureka!) do what you ask of them after only 6 or 7 failed attempts and then you stand in the kitchen like a gladiator who’s triumphed awaiting roses and kisses, and think: “Eat my toenails, Dillon”?

I had one of those.

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