There are two ways to get from my mother-in-law’s house to our own. The one any maps app will choose is a freeway that slices through our city, high concrete walls on either side. The speed limit is 65, which in Phoenix means 85 or 90.
The other one meanders around one mountain and then another, through a few different neighborhoods, and deposits us at the same location just nine minutes later.
The speed limit is 40, which in Phoenix means 60, but I top out at 39.
“The freeway would be faster,” Matthew tells me.
I know this, but the freeway doesn’t give you the gift of spotting the headlamps of the hikers making their way up Piestewa Peak after the sun sets, or the view of the city spreading out and sparkling below us.
When we’re home, after the boys are bathed and put to bed, once I’ve put in my retainers and Matthew has applied his nasal strip, it is time for our usual routine. And no, this story is not going to take a sexy twist. Because Matthew was trying to find something for us to…
