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I’m not one of those moms who manages to make a perfect, organic dinner every night.  I’m not even one of those moms who makes an imperfect organic dinner every night.  Usually, I just toast myself a bagel, slather on some salty butter, pour a glass of vino, turn on trash TV and voila!  Dinnertime.

Reasons for my failure at dinnertime are numerous: my husband often works nights and making a dinner for just myself is a little depressing; I’m lazy; making dinner with a one year-old crawling around, trying to electrocute herself at every chance is stressful; I’m lazy; and, did I mention that I’m lazy?

So last night when I made spaghetti and meatballs from scratch it was a bit of an event.  I even got a good bottle of Chianti (not the 3 buck one I normally get) as a sort of a romantic splurge with my husband.

And then, it happened – my daughter started screaming from her bedroom.  She. Did. Not. Want. To. SLEEP! AHHHHHHHHHH!

I tried to comfort her, I tried to rock her, I tried to shove my boob down her throat like any respectable, breast-feeding Mommy and nothing worked.

Thus, I brought my babe to the “romantic” dinner with my husband.  She had won.  I had lost.  Trying to be a positive fount of positive-positivity, I played it cool.  “Hey baby.  You think you can ruin this date night but you can’t!  ‘Cause you’re a cute kid and I’m totally fine with you ruining any semblance of sexiness in my marriage.”

We started to eat and things were going well.  Sean and I were trying to stay on adult topics, and I’m not talking about “adult” topics like “adult book stores from the 80’s” – I mean things like “what’s going on in the world… oh my god I’m a grown-up and I don’t always have to talk about our beautiful child” stuff.  Sean loved my balls, I loved the wine (duh) and then it happened.

Moira started pooping.

At the dinner table.

Now, children are prone to pooping whenever they damn feel like it.  It’s one of the most fabulous things about being a youngin’.  You get to drop a big ole’ numero dos whenever you please; but this was no normal poo.

This was the biggest goddamn poop I have ever encountered in a baby.  Her face turned red and then – boom! The avalanche of shit started.

It filled her onesie.  It filled her pants.  It filled her high chair.

I’m pretty sure it filled half of Los Angeles County.

If there were a pooping competition for kids; she would win hands-down.  This kid was pooping as if her life depended on it… and it was while Sean and I were attempting a romantic couple’s dinner.  Great!

You won this round, baby.  Your big, fat-man-sized poopy won this round; but you shall not prevail.  Oh, no, young babe.  I shall smite thee of thy scatological prowess; mark my words.

Just kidding – she’ll probably just continue to poop at highly inappropriate times and I’ll find it hilarious.  This kid sure ruins the mood between my spouse and I, but she has the funniest timing ever.

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