If you were a kid in the 80s, or had a kid in the 80s, you remember the Care Bears.

Yeah, them.

I wear footie jammies. I have two pairs. Love them.

Wolf, however, wants to take it to the next level.

“How about Care Bear footie jammies?” he suggests.

I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic, expecting me to be horrified, but I’m immediately enthusiastic. “That would be AWESOME! Bonus points for a hood with ears on it!”

“You could have different belly patches. Fun ones, but also adult ones.”

I nodded. “Fifty Shades Bear. Like, handcuffs and a whip. Caffeine Bear, with a cup of coffee. Hard day? Badge with a bottle of wine on it.”

“Horny Bear.” Wolf offers. “There’s already a bear with a heart on it, use that.”

“A big snarling bear face, for when I’m in a bad mood. It could be like a Wife Emotional Weather Warning System.”

“Or a smiling face.” He counters.

I stare at him. “Yeah, right, ok. So. PMS Bear…figure a big hunk of chocolate? Or a big knife?”

“More like a mushroom cloud.” he mutters.

“I heard that. Comments like that would get the heart ripped off the belly, and the snarling-I’m-gonna-eat-your-face-bear put on, you know. No Horny Bear for you!”

Corrupting Care Bears. All in an evening’s conversation.

This is marriage, folks. Nothing is sacred.

Not even footie jammies and Care Bears.