What’s poop for the goose…

…is also poop for the gander.

After our first (of only two) marriage counseling sessions, the assignment was to go on a low-key “date”, and she won the coin toss and designated me to setup the first weekly one.

I arranged to pick up her and the foster baby and go to a folksy coffee house for a dinner soup and sandwich, with a short walk afterward by the lake.

In the report to the counselor at the second (and final) session, the story was that I purposefully pushed the stroller across some goose poop, which was of course going to transmit bird feces from the wheels to the floor of the van which was unsanitary and thoughtless.

These kinds of events in themselves, of course, are not reasons for moving out.  They simply become anecdotes that describe the other spouse’s character.  And you’re supposed to extrapolate that they’re ________ (fill in the blank).

I have my theories, but I’ll probably never fully understand what led her to the extreme action of packing up and leaving.

But I’m guessing the next time I see goose poop, I’ll step in it.


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