Captain Obvious

It happened again.
I know just by the terse tone of my wife's voice as she lectures Amber. 
I can hear the little footfalls resignedly climbing the steps, Mommy hot on her trail, ranting the same lecture I've been hearing for a few months.
I'm caught in no man's land.  Do I continue to sit here and watch the hockey game, or do I go upstairs and pay my two cents, or at least make my supportive appearance, for both Amber and Mommy.  I'm still on the fence when I hear my wife bark a barrage of questions at Amber and the thought of that tiny elvin face, looking up with wounded eyes, launches me off my seat and up the steps.
As soon as my wife senses my presence, she turns to me full of indignation.
"She peed her pants again!"
I figured as much.  Amber's been having accidents, but only because she doesn't want to come in from playing, afraid she'll miss something.  So she'll hold it for as long as she can until the floodgates open. 
"I can't believe you won't come in to pee.  You can go back out after you use the bathroom, you know?"
Exasperation colors my wife's pretty face. 
She continues to collect Amber's discarded, wet jeans and underwear while keeping a fast-paced litany about heeding the body's urges.
For her part, Amber's learned to keep quiet until these storms blow over.  Even though she's sitting on the potty, she holds her head up high, her eyes resolute.  It's as though she knows we'll eventually stop lecturing and simply succumb to her cuteness, which we do, but that's not the point right now.
I'm almost ready to run into Amber's bedroom and gather some clean clothes, but the ire radiating from my wife keeps me rooted to the last step of the stariway.
She glares at me for a second making me think somehow I'm at fault.  I'm the man after all, right?  It's ALWAYS our fault.
Then she looks down at Amber, who meets her glare with one of her own that seems to silently ask, what's the big deal?  
I've seen THAT look on my wife before.  It has the same effect of the sliding of a round into the chamber of a shotgun before it goes off.
"Amber..." she says in a tight voice while our five year old daughter looks up with calculated disinterest.  "Why do you do this, what makes you do this?" Mommy demands.
The ensuing silence is perfect, in my mind I can almost see a tumbleweed rolling in the dusty wind of some western movie as the two combatants face off, fingers twitching by the butts of their guns.
"I want to know, what makes you do this?" Mommy demands.
Amber doesn't look afraid in the least, nor remorseful.  Her tiny brows pinch over her nose and in a firm, terse voice of her own replies, "Juice.  What else?"
Mommy visibly starts at the reply.  She turns slowly, her gaze finding me.  The stunned expression widening her blue eyes is more than I can take.  I laugh so hard I nearly roll down the steps.
Once again, I'm the hero.  With my wife shooting me daggers for my audacity to laugh, Amber, my little Captain Obvious is back outside playing, victor of the comfrontation.