You know what they say, it's not a conspiracy theory if it is actually happening.

Derek called from his conference today, asking about our lunch plans. Baby E was down for the count, so I dropped his ass into his car seat, grabbed a bottle for the inevitable scream of hunger, and we were out the door. The cry started quicker than I thought, so there I was on 395, with my arm stretched across the seat trying to keep a bottle in the screaming baby's mouth.

We ended up meeting for a little Eye-talian cuisine. I have come to the stark realization that I too, along with my husband, think that money is growing on a tree in our backyard. Bygones.

So Derek gave Ethan the rest of the bottle and carefully bounced him on his leg, taking care that should Ethan spit up, it would not happen on his best law firm suit. Then it's my turn. Not two minutes pass and I have an ounce of milk, running down my arm, over my shorts and onto the floor.

DT--I don't know how this always happens to you.

Bitter, I handed him back. Once again, bouncy, bouncy, polite burps and generally obnoxious cooing at one another.

My turn again, 15 minutes later. He didn't even give me 60 seconds before he had taken out the other side of my black shirt.

Waiter--Madam, madam, do you need some soda for your shirt? Did you get sauce on it?

Soda for my shirt--SOB, I was wearing a cheesy t-shirt, not silk. Don't remind me that I am currently in the running for the Sloth/Slob of the year contest.

KH--That's fine. I have BABY all over me, not my lunch.

I hate the little bastard.