It's right before bedtime and Sylvia is about to flip out about something - that a page of her picture book is "broken" (read: torn, by her, days before) and that she can't have three more handfuls of popcorn after we said "one more." Before I have a chance to ask, "What's wrong, Syl?" my husband walks up behind her, lifts her up into his arms, and carries her over his shoulder. "MAMA! NO! Mom-me-ee-ee!!!" she yells, upside down.
