I don’t have an exciting life.

That isn’t necessarily a complaint. I’ve actually worked pretty hard to get here. My problem is that I write about my life, which means I occasionally need something to happen. Not anything dramatic. I’m not looking for a house fire, a police chase, or an unexpected invitation to appear on national television. I just need enough stimulation to convince my brain there is a story hiding somewhere in the day.

The trick is getting the right amount of input. Too many new things and I’m outside my comfort zone, where my brain starts throwing warning lights. Too few, and I stare at a blank page waiting for a thought to develop a pulse. Ideas are ultimately supplied by my brain, but sometimes the poor thing needs a spark. Too much input, though, and I blow a fuse and lose the ability to organize any of it into something resembling a coherent thought.

Yesterday may have been one of those days.

I ran errands with my daughter and Ellie, and I was convinced I had enough material to put a story together. My daughter’s mother-in-law was staying with the twins, so we had temporarily reduced the number of children requiring adult supervision from three to one. Someday we may attempt a trip to the store with all three girls. That day will not be tomorrow. We were trying to be home by noon because 12:30 was the next feeding, and there is a very specific point at which “we’re running a little late” becomes “the babies have threatened to fire you.”

At Sam’s, I picked up my usual supply of vitamins while Ellie treated the bottles like toys. She moved them from the bulk displays to the floor as though Sam’s had thoughtfully installed a vitamin-themed play area for toddlers. We already have an empty Omega-3 bottle at home that has become a miniature storage facility for golf balls and various other small objects. If you put the objects into the bottle correctly—or incorrectly, depending on your definition of success—a simple tilt won’t empty the contents. I keep thinking I need to find something long and skinny to control the flow. A few weeks ago, this would have been a much bigger issue with Ellie because she would have been emotionally invested in immediately solving the problem. Now she still loves the bottles, but she has matured enough to accept that sometimes the contents of a bottle remain in the bottle.

I was also planning to pick up some country-fried steak for our hockey boy’s dinner. If Sam’s still sells it, I couldn’t find it. Then the hockey boy texted to say he was going to Top Golf with a teammate, which eliminated the need for a dinner plan. One text message and my culinary responsibilities disappeared. With my wife gone, I would eat whatever was easiest.

The rest of the Sam’s visit consisted mostly of chasing Ellie during the moments when she wasn’t providing the muscle necessary to keep the shopping cart moving. She gets behind that cart, gets low and drives her feet with the determination of a high school football player hitting a blocking sled. Her technique would probably result in a holding penalty if she were doing it during a football game, but at her age and gender, I’m reasonably confident she’s safe from those particular flags for the rest of her life. When she wasn’t pushing the cart, Ellie was wandering into the pathway of other shoppers. My daughter and I were on constant tag-team duty, making sure she didn’t exit an aisle directly into the path of an unsuspecting shopper who had come to Sam’s for toilet paper and was not prepared to participate in a toddler obstacle course.

My final contribution to the outing was mistaking the Iranian employee checking us out for an Indian. This was less about geography than conditioning. My son is in India for the next few weeks, so my brain has temporarily decided that everyone from South Asia is Indian. I spoke to my son on FaceTime Monday night, and he told me that in the ten days he’s been there, he has seen only four other white people. Most of those were at the Taj Mahal. He’s getting used to being stared at. I’m guessing I would be getting used to it, too, although I would probably assume I had spinach in my teeth.

After Sam’s, my daughter decided she needed a “dirty soda” before I dropped her off at home with her three-pack of pumpkin and container of Medjool dates. Fortunately, there was a Swig on the way. There weren’t many cars, but there was a surprisingly slow-moving line. This was my first Swig experience, and given the limited number of flavors I am willing to voluntarily suffer through, my daughter suggested something with root beer. I was tempted to stop right there, but eventually settled on the Butter Beer. Root beer and butterscotch are two of my favorite flavors, and I figured the vanilla crème probably wouldn’t be enough to ruin it.

My daughter went with the “Spice, Spice Baby,” which contained Dr Pepper, vanilla, cinnamon, pumpkin pie sauce, half-and-half and a cinnamon stick. I tried it. It was better than I expected, but I don’t think I could have made those 24 ounces disappear.

The ordering process was interesting. Someone would walk out the back door, take the order on an iPad, collect payment and then tell you, “I’ll meet you at the window.” We watched two cars ahead of us go through the same process, so by the time it was our turn, we were practically veterans. Then the employee told my daughter they were out of cinnamon syrup.

Did she still want the drink?

She did.

The employee explained that this was the reason the line was moving so slowly. Her manager had gone to another store to get the cinnamon syrup. Meanwhile, the line at our store continued moving at the approximate speed of continental drift. When it takes more than 15 minutes to place an order with four cars in line, my Butter Beer is probably not going to become a regular habit.

It was pretty tasty, though.

Ellie slept in the back seat the entire time, which should have been relaxing. It wasn’t. My daughter was slightly concerned because her normal nap time is after lunch, and her sleep schedule has become considerably less predictable since the twins arrived. Apparently, even babies have organizational meetings.

After I dropped them off, I headed home to a house my wife would soon be vacating for the night. The hockey boy made a brief stop, then asked if he could spend the night with the teammate he was going to Top Golf with.

So there I was.

Alone.

I wasn’t particularly in the mood for a solo night, but that was what had been offered. Warmups and a solo walk around the neighborhood weren’t my first choice, but sometimes you don’t get what you want. You get what you need.

I prefer a light social schedule. I just don’t prefer a non-social schedule. There is a sweet spot somewhere between a trickle and a hydrant. A trickle leaves me wondering where everybody went. A hydrant makes me want to go to my room and wait until the excessiveness of life has drained out of the house.

My wife knows the balance. She doesn’t know me perfectly, but she knows me very well. She knows when I need people and when I need fewer people. She knows when I need a little space and when too much space starts to feel like nobody is around. She also knows that I am considerably more entertaining when someone is nearby to appreciate the entertainment.

Most importantly, she gives my brain a reason to stay awake.

Judy is mostly the straight man in this little comedy routine, although she would probably dispute the word “mostly.” I spend a ridiculous amount of my day looking for something unexpected that might make her smile. Sometimes it’s a story. Sometimes it’s a comment. Sometimes it’s nothing more than the look I give her when one of us realizes we have once again made a completely unnecessary decision.

That is probably why yesterday felt a little incomplete. There were plenty of things happening. A toddler nearly became a Sam’s Club linebacker. I confused an Iranian with an Indian. I waited 15 minutes for a soda containing enough ingredients to qualify as a chemistry experiment. I watched my son describe what it feels like to be one of four white people at the Taj Mahal.

Technically, I had a day.

But Judy wasn’t in it.

And as much as I enjoy the occasional quiet night, I’m reminded that I don’t really need an exciting life. I need someone beside me who makes the ordinary parts worth noticing.

Tomorrow, I’ll have something to look forward to.

Judy will be home.