Friday morning, I am shoveling out our driveway. Several nighttime passes by the plow have created a metre-high ridge at that extends about three metres from the road. It is wet. It is heavy. I am ill tempered.
Henry: (nibbling, yet again, at the snow stuck to his mitt) I want to sled.
Me: Great. The sleds are in the garage.
Henry: I can't open the door with my mitts on. Will you get them?
Me: Why don't you take a mitt off?
Henry: (scoff) Do I have to do everything around here?