My husband called about an hour ago. He said those fateful words that every mother hates to hear.

“Honey, I’m going to be late.”

Little Sister had just pitched her third tantrum of the day, which included throwing herself on the floor and banging her head on the carpet. The reason for her outburst? Her mother wouldn’t open another bottle of Gatorade, instead insisting that Little Sister drink from the already opened bottle of Gatorade, which was, incidentally, THE EXACT SAME FLAVOR as the one she was wanting me to open. So it’s not like she was being tempted by red dye #4. Yellow #7 seemed to be satisfactory.

I was counting down the minutes to when I would hear my beloved’s footsteps on the porch, when he would rescue me from a screaming toddler who, after she calmed down from her tantrum, chose to entertain herself by sitting on my head while covering my face with her brother’s cape. Then, another tantrum ensued when I wouldn’t let my offspring rip the hair off my head.

I love my daughter.

There is the undeniable fact, however, that she is better behaved for her father than she is for me. I proved this theory once when DH had to be the primary parent for the day. When I returned at dusk, he reported a tantrum free day, whereupon the child looked at me, recognized her mother, and pitched an all mighty fit about the color of her cup.

I turned and left the room. I’m no fool, after all. If she behaves like a normal person instead of a possessed toddler when I’m not around, I know how to make my exit.

So it was the promise of this infusion of Daddy induced good behavior that was holding me together, the glue that was keeping my from breaking all to pieces.

And so I had to wait just a bit longer.

It was the longest half an hour ever.

He did come home, and sprang me from my tantrum prison. He did try to talk to me, however, at which point I sort of came into focus and said, “um, what?”

“You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?”

At this point, Scooby Doo was going on full blast on the TV, J was bouncing on the bed on his bum with his foot outstretched towards us to demonstrate his most recent playground wound, and Little Sister was singing along with the TV at her loudest while emptying toy bins and crashing them around the room.

“Yes, I blocked you out. It’s a defense mechanism all mothers employ. Otherwise we would eat our young.”

DH was not amused at my reference to cannibalizing his children. Can’t imagine why not. They probably taste like chicken.

Not surprisingly, he volunteered to make dinner.

Smart man.

As a postscript, may I say that Scooby Doo makes no sense. There are glaring leaps of logic that I noticed even as a kid. And yet, we still enjoy these things.

Our country is doomed.