I called my husband an idiot.

And judging by the severely emotional wound he immediately displayed, one might have thought I accused him of having only one ball. Not that being called testically challenged is nicer than being called an idiot, but honestly, it just slipped. I had reached a point of frustration that only a mother of a cranky baby in need of a nap might understand. We had arrived at our destination of The Annual Family Picnic in cloudless 90° weather and amongst a throng of enthusiastic grandparents driven to cover as much of the Papoose’s face as humanly possible with kisses. Miraculously, he had fallen asleep during the course of our 30 minute drive and I created a Grand Master Plan in which he would stay asleep in the parked car for another 30 minutes, thus producing a baby less likely to hurl himself towards the ground in a fit of despair when things didn’t go his way, which they invariably wouldn't at some point. The Husband thought my plan was a good one. I thought we were in agreement, on the same page, speaking the same language, of the same mind. Until he parks the car, turns off the engine, unbuckles his seat belt, and opens the door. And the Papoose abruptly wakes and resumes protesting. “Uh,dude? During which part of this vehicular symphony did you assume the baby would sleep through?” He mumbled something to the tune of “How was I supposed to know to leave the car running?” Right, in 90 effing degrees we turn the car off. To which I mumbled in return “Idiot.”

The entire incident resolved itself rather quickly beginning with my apology and ending with him snuffling like a sad puppy and reminding me of our no name calling Rule. I suppose it’s funnier in retrospect and like he said to me following my apology: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” You have no idea how right you are Husband ‘O Mine. Next time? I drive.