Because Aitch is (choose one):

a) teething

b) sick

c) almost two

d) possessed by evil spirits

e) lodging a protest against the 5th rainy weekend in a row

he has been bursting into whiny tantrums at the slightest provocation. He cries and resists all attempts to appease him with a heart-rending, “No, no!” as though demons were shoving Tabasco-covered cuticle sticks under his toenails.

Naturally, whenever we sense a meltdown coming on, we do everything we can to forestall it, because once he’s in the throes our little Chernobyl is inconsolable. Yesterday, for example, we had Aitch out car shopping longer than we intended, way past dinner time, and we were midway through a 45-minute drive home when he began to fuss. I scoured the car for anything edible to tide him over, but came up empty.

“Here,” Husband said, rummaging in his pocket.

“Really? Can we…?”

“Do you want him to freak out again?”

I handed Aitch a dog biscuit. The rumbling from the back seat quieted. Husband and I took a few deep breaths.

“More, please!”

Woof.