Evan's bathroom habits have become annoyingly predictable lately. And by annoyingly predictable, I mean borderline infuriating.

Whether we're at home, a restaurant or a friend's house, the moment everyone sits down to start eating is inevitably the exact moment I hear, "Mommy, I need to poop." Yes, he's five years old, but I'm not a big fan of scrubbing skid marks out of underwear, so I choose to accompany my dear child to the restroom. Apologies for the visual.

Anyway.

We recently were out for dinner when, like clockwork, as the waitress placed my plate before me, Evan announced that his tummy hurt, and no, he could not wait. So, off to the restroom we marched, hand in hand.

I don't recall our exact conversation in the bathroom that particular evening, but I can attest to the fact that it was very much about poop, poop and nothing but poop. But to the crowd of women who gathered in line to wait for the restroom after me, impatiently knocking as I hollered "we're almost done in here!!!", I suspect it sounded a lot like something else. Something far more enjoyable.

"Hurry up, sweetheart. I would really like to eat my dinner while it's still warm."

Grunt.

Grunt.

Grunt.

"Are you done yet? Come on. Seriously."

Grunt.

Giggle.

Grunt.

"Hurry up, my love, I mean it. Next time, you're going to have to do it alone, I don't care how messy it is."

Grunt.

"I'm really losing my appetite here, honey."

Grunt.

Grunt.

Grunt.

"We are not doing this again. I mean it this time. Stop laughing and CONCENTRATE!!!"

Grunt.

GRUNT.

"Finally. Let's get cleaned up and go eat. I'm starving."

Giggle.

For the record, it was not good for me.

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