Our family of four was shopping the other day (and by shopping, I mean my husband was pushing a cart stuffed with two whining kids while I looked for an escape hatch) when we dead-ended into one of those homespun signs that make me cringe a little. I read the words, looked at my husband, and rolled my eyes forcefully enough that I’m still waiting to hear back from the ophthalmologist. “GOD,” I hissed in a combination of prayer, exasperation, and self-righteousness. “So now it’s the non-cleaners’ turn to define what’s good?”

Full disclosure: I am one of the cleaners. To the…

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