Just had a night out with my hubby.
Can't remember the last time that happened.
It was fun pretending to be a care-free chica, out for fun on a Friday night. Reality came crashing home when I leaned back, in ultra-relaxed mode, feeling pretty happy after a mojito and two glasses of wine, put my hands in my jacket pocket and discovered a pair of soiled underwear hastily stashed there a few days ago.
You can take the mom out of the fray, but you can't take the fray out of the mom.
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A couple of days ago, I took Sam to his housesitting job, with Talllulah in tow. She had an accident while we were there. A small one, I swear. Like super small, not much substance, just enough to justify removing her drawers and bringing her home commando-style.
Just enough to be OK with stuffing the contents in my pocket.
With just enough sleep deprivation and just enough other crap happening for me to forget they were there.
Kind of changed the whole "night out" experience for me. I bet I was the only person in T-Rex tonight with a pair of poopy underwear in her pocket. I am so totally grossed out, and would probably be too embarrassed to blog about it, except that thanks to the rum and the wine, I had a great time anyway.
I have to give a big shout out to F. A. D'Bee, for watching the natives and making this night possible. She's a Rock Star.
I'm going to go do a little laundry, soak my hand in "Hanitizer" (T's phrase for hand sanitizer), and then go rest my alcohol-soaked head on a pillow.
Life is good. Strange, but good.
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