Four times a year, Kevin has to go to a shooting range and play cowboy–one of the mandatory aspects of his job. Sometimes the shooting is indoors and fairly straightforward. Sometimes it’s outdoors, with moving targets that are made to look like an assortment of criminals alongside mothers holding babies, and you have to shoot while running. You’re supposed to shoot the criminals but not the babies, and preferably not the mamas. So this morning, Kevin was out the door by 6:30 with his kevlar vest and other accoutrements– shooting day again.

A few minutes ago, I called him to talk about some key aspects of our son’s rearing. This is the strongest evidence yet that I’ve succumbed to a state of housewifery–that I’m at home in jeans and a sweatshirt at 3:00 on a Wednesday afternoon, “supervising” the landscaping of our back yard, downing chocolate-covered macadamia nuts like water and calling my husband to talk about the baby. At any rate, I asked about his day of shooting. A score of 80 is considered passing. He got an 82. Being a supportive wife, I praised him for upholding the family standards. To which he replied, “If it wasn’t good enough, it wouldn’t be called the minimum.”

“Amen,” I said.

The exercise: Write a story about a criminal. Or a story about housewives. Oh, or one about doing just enough to get by.