THE PAPER

Spouse and I looked at each other, our faces drained of color and our eyes wide enough to show the whites.

"Should we open it?" our voices cracked in unison.

Our hands met finger-to-finger in a circle around THE PAPER.  We feared its arrival.  We hoped beyond hope it would pass us by.  For the entire year we ran from it.  Early last month we dared to think we'd beaten it.  But today, on a hot summer Saturday, the Postman gingerly placed it in our box.  He practically cackled as he fled to the next home to deliver yet another document with those menacing words, THE PAPER.

We faced it together, Spouse and me.  We took it from the box, and carried it inside where we placed it dead center on the kitchen counter top tile.  We smoothed the edges, careful to keep them from touching the grout.  That's when we placed our palms on the counter and  made a circle around it, our fingers touching tip to tip.

"Do you want to do it?" Spouse asked, the panic thick on his breath.

"Oh, it's okay if you do it," I offered in my most pleasant voice.

"That's okay.  You told me this was important to you."

"I never said any such thing!"

"Well, who's going to do it?"  We looked at each other again, Spouse and me.

"You're the mom.  Moms are supposed to be good at this."

"Well, you're the dad.  And daughters listen better to their dads."

"I beg to differ."

"So do I."

"Well, who's going to do it?"

We looked at each other again, Spouse and me.  Just as we were about to speak a whirlwind of teenage drama blew into the kitchen.  Her cell phone was attached to the left side of her head.  She was smacking her gum in between the run-on sentences she was spitting into the phone.  Her eyes were rolling like tennis balls at a champion match.

Ah, yes, the teenager of who THE PAPER applied.  We looked at her.  She looked at us.  We looked at the counter.  Her eyes stopped rolling long enough to fix on THE PAPER.  The cell phone dropped from her head.  The gum fell out of her mouth.  All was silent for exactly 4.5 seconds.  Then the shrieking began.

"It's here My permit is finally here I can drive When can we go I can go now if you're ready No wait let me throw my stuff down Here hold my purse I have to call Sarah She'll never believe my permit is here Can you believe it My permit is here I can finally drive!"

We looked at each other, Spouse and me, our faces pale.

"You do it," our voices cracked in unison.