Poppy has a muscle strain (or something) in her neck, so I was setting her up on my bed with the heating pad and an audiobook. Meanwhile, Pete was at the head of the bed, trying to fish out a Leapster cartridge he’d spied.

In such a situation, I would advise not blithely saying, “Don’t get your head stuck.”

Because he did. And he panicked, as one naturally does when one’s head is stuck between two metal bars.

I tried to smoosh his ears down and ease his head out.

“I want Daddy!” he screamed, as one naturally does when one’s mother attempts to smoosh one’s ears.

“Shhhhh,” I implored, “shhhhhh. Try to relax. I’m going to get some butter for your ears.”

He wailed. Naturally.

Then he lowered his head a little, and with a swift twist he’d freed himself. His ears were pink, his nose was runny and his face was tear-stained, but at least he was free and sans butter.

“Don’t stick your head in things!” I called as he romped out of the room.

I turned back to Poppy, nestled on her pillow with her Twilight Sparkle snug in her arms. She glared at me.

“So now you don’t even care about me,” she said.

The moral of the story: I can’t win.