Your wife starts a conversation by saying “I have a request”, and you know it’s going to be bad. Not a routine, you-throw-your-socks-on-the-floor kind of bad, but a special, we-need-to-set-aside-time-to-talk-about-this kind of bad. Your mind races through all the unpleasant possibilities. Ballroom dance lessons? Cleaning out the garage? Purging your collection of comic books / baseball cards / action figures / collectible card games / impossibly complicated board games that you never play / maps of fictional places / things that remind you of other things / letters you received in college before e-mail happened / pointy sticks / handwritten plans for what to do in case you suddenly become a wizard? Then she explains that she wants you to write a skit. And you breathe a sigh of relief, because F ballroom dancing. And you’re like, sure, what’s the big deal? And then she explains that it has to be funny. And you’re like, duh. And then she explains that it has to be educational. And you’re like, ookkaaaaay. And then she explains that it has to be written for an audience of physicians, hospital administrators and lactation consultants, and must contain substantive content about how to achieve the objectives of the National Institute for Children’s Healthcare Quality and the State Department of Health as they attempt both to improve breastfeeding education and to support mothers of newborns in overcoming the myriad struggles they face. And you’re now totally ready to go ballroom dancing.