"Honey. . ."

"Honey, have you seen my wallet?" "Honey, where is my jacket/shoes/socks/underwear?"

Sometimes, I swear that when I got married my first name changed to "Honey" and it's always followed by a question mark. I often wonder how a grown, responsible man can lose so many personal items so many times. Like my mother used to say, ". . .if I had a nickel for every time I heard {insert whatever here} I'd be rich. . ."

Without fail, everytime my family gets ready to leave the house he's lost something of vital importance. Usually, right before we leave I start in like a wrangler on a ranch. I change the baby's diaper while simultaneously prodding my 8 year old daughter to change into a shirt that actually matches her pants or argue with her that it's 20 degrees outside and she really DOES need to wear shoes and not sandals (I don't care how good they look with her outfit). I get the baby's bottle and diaper bag ready while informing my husband that "we're gonna have to go pretty soon"; to which I always get, "I know" as he sits in his big "papi" chair. I inform my daughter that she simply must comb her hair if she intends on going out in public with me; to which I always get "UH, but Moooooommmmm, I just did." And, at some point in all of this she ends up bawling and I end up growling. The whole time we're all running up and down the stairs and going from room to room (with the dog in tow right behind me). All the while my husband sits in his "papi" chair. At the end, I strap the baby in his car seat, get my daughter in the car, get myself in the car and then. . . inevitably, we wait.

I'm guessing that after all that buzz in the house, my husband finally realizes it's quiet and nobody's around. I'm guessing that he must notice and think to himself "Geez, I guess I better get ready." I guess all this because about 5 minutes after we're in the car, here he comes through the garage door (which he always has to check to make sure it's locked). He gets into the car and starts feeling his pockets.

"Honey, did you get my cigarettes?" I usually wind up producing them from the diaper bag no sooner than he finishes asking.
"Uh, Honey, did you get my lighter too?"
"GGRRRR, yes DEAR."
"Honey, did you get me a soda?"
"It's right there, dear."
"Honey, where's my wallet?" By this point, I'm a little miffed.
"I don't know, DEAR, but I know where mine is."

So he has to get back out of the car in search of his wallet. I simply can't figure out why he doesn't take care of these things before he gets into the car. And, before he gets back into the car the baby -- 9 times out of 10 -- has pooped his pants and the smell wafts my way (it always wafts my way because nobody else seems to notice it). Which means that I have to unstrap the baby and take him back in the house to change his diaper. Which apparently my daughter takes for a prime opportunity to use the bathroom, or get her CD player or change her socks or something of the sort. Right in the middle my husband comes downstairs and looks at me with that boyish puzzled face he has.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking a ride on a gondala in Rome, Dear. What does it look like I'm doing?"
"Well, if you're not ready. . . ."
"DON'T YOU DARE SIT DOWN AGAIN!!!"

Eventually, we get in the car, but it always seems to take twice as long to get going as it does to reach our destination.