My wife resents me with every strand of her hot little DNA. And it's not the never listening, the constantly open kitchen cabinets, or the vegetarian farts -- although they probably don't help. It's because I get to sit around crafting ambiguously profane "Wheels on the Bus" lyrics with our 2-year-old while she works 10 hours a day supporting us.
Every picture I share of our daughter and me bonding, every message about what she had for lunch or what new mall we browsed, kills her. (When Skylar spoke her first sentence, I had to pretend she didn't and wait until she repeated it for both of us to hear. Oops, did I just publish that?)