Recipe for Disaster

It all started with a bouncy ball - a bouncy ball that my son, Bubba, NEEDED to throw at a tiffany style lamp.  Once said bouncy ball was removed from the scene, a temper tantrum the likes of which few have ever seen ensued.  It started after dinner, continued through bath time and he cried himself to sleep during story time.

Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Peace and quiet.  Then Bubba fell out of bed.  He wasn’t hurt, but he was given an excuse to pick up the temper tantrum right where he left off.

Of course, Mr. Perfect, having spent all day with the New Woman and having forgotten to call his son, decided to call right at bedtime.  He heard the screaming in the background and demanded to speak to Bubba.  I was sick of it all at that point, so I handed Bubba the phone.  Bubba put his newly learned kicking ability to use and the phone flew from my hand.  I retrieved it, put it on speakerphone and held it up so that Perfect could hear his child in all his fury.

I’m not entirely sure what happened next. 

Perfect said something to the effect of “He never acts like this around me!”

My mother, her maternal instincts kicking it overdrive, ripped the phone out of my hand.

Next thing I knew, the two of them were arguing.

Now Perfect has never liked my mom.  My mother only liked him briefly, if at all.  We all actually survived living together for the first year and a half of our marriage until Perfect made enough money for us to afford our own house, but I’m still not entirely sure how that happened.  I think it was mostly because Perfect hid in our bedroom while my mother and I took care of the baby and the house by ourselves.