I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

No matter how many times my wife forbids me, for some reason, I keep putting plastic storage containers into the dishwasher.

She quotes all sorts of studies of its harmful effects.

She warns me about the dangerous chemical leaching of bisphenol, and still my forgetfulness takes over.

Most likely, I am rushing to get to my computer, or a meeting, or whatever activity I deem more important than our help.

I look sheepishly guilty whenever she lifts the warp plastic from the rack.

No matter how many times I ask her, for some reason, my wife leaves shoes scattered throughout the house.

She's one of those that takes off her boots, sneakers, sandals, wherever she fills.

I go behind her and line them up in a hallway. At night, it is a hazard to go to the kitchen

for a glass of water. I navigate out dimly lit home, fearful of stepping on her clogs and stumbling head over heels, as has happened.

We love each other, and thus have learned to accept our character flaws.

Actually, they are character traits.

We embrace each other's quirky habits rather than get into little disputes.

Familiarity breeds contempt, goes the old saying.

But we now see that our peculiar behaviors are simply evidence of our dissimilarities. We found a way of keeping the peace.

Today's poem is a loving exchange that underscores the importance of giving room for what makes

those we love different from us, even if we wish to change them.

Sorrow guzzle by Mary Elder Jacobson for my sister and brothers.

Forgive me, may a culpa, begged pardon, I'm so sorry. It's a never-ending list. All the ways we say we're sorry.

"'Mom,' I say, "'how about we don't say sorry today?'

"'What's that, love? I can't hear you,' she says.

"'I'm sorry. I'll be right back. One sec. Let me get my hearing aid. I rethink repeating myself. What's

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