It was Mom’s Night Out for the mother’s in my son’s playgroup. That meant for a few hours one night last week, the men ruled.
 
My 15-month-old son, Owen, my dog, Sam, and I were left to fend for ourselves.
 
“Just call me if you need any help,” said my mom who was on the other end of the phone while I was chasing Owen around the kitchen table.
 
“I don’t need any help,” I said. “I am fine, but I have to go.”
 
With that I hung up fast so that I could intercept Owen before he got to my unsuspecting half-blind, half-deaf poodle.
 
That was the truth. I didn’t need any help. The guys had this night of freedom in the bag.
 
We started off with cookies--really messy, cakey, absurdly sweet cookies.
 
“Yum…”said Owen as he walked around eating his cookie. “Yum…” he repeated using two hands to clutch it tightly.
 
Operation Cooperation took shape quickly as the dog followed behind Owen licking up whatever squished-out cookie filling Owen jettisoned along his path.
 
Having just had the other cookie from his pack, I knew exactly what the problem was when Owen came running back into the kitchen with an uncomfortable look on his face.
 
“Milk?” I asked.
 
Eating one Nilla cake cookie had the same effect as having an entire cake slammed down my throat. I empathized with my boy who was running to the fridge.  
 
“OK, I’m on it,” I said feeling the same caked-out urgency. I rushed to assemble a bottle. Pouring milk with one hand and inserting the bottle liner with the other, I was pleased by my efficiency--until I handed my baby his bottle.
 
He started cackling at me while holding the bottle upside down to illustrate my mistake.
 
In my haste I inserted a long bottle liner, into a short bottle. Milk pooled at his feet. Luckily, the poodle had already gotten the gist of Operation Cooperation and the spilt milk was gone in a flash.
 
Owen had gotten the gist too. Daddy was going to need some help.
 
“Eat, eat,” he said heading for his highchair.
 
OK, I could decipher that. I strapped him into the chair.
 
“What do you want to eat?” I asked.
 
“Beans!” he said pointing to the food closet.
 
We were on a roll and told my wife not to worry when she called to check on us. 
 
“Hmmm… these say chili beans. I don’t think I should give you these. How about some yogurt instead?” I asked my boy after hanging up the phone.
 
He didn’t mind the yogurt as long as he could feed me every other spoonful. Meanwhile, the dog deftly handled his part of the mission on the ground.
 
After the three-course meal of yogurt, cheerios and cheese we cleaned each other up, chased each other around the house and read. By bedtime, the baby and dog were both content and tuckered.
 
Toys were scattered everywhere and the dog was snoring on Owen’s blanket. A sense of calm came over me as the Disney Channel flickered in the corner.
 
I leaned over Owen’s crib and thought to myself: I was a pretty good mommy—even if I wasn’t invited to Mom’s Night Out.
 
Suddenly, I was pulled back to earth by a foot in my face. It was Owen’s final hint to me that night.
 
By putting his foot in my face the little sage let me know that he shouldn’t be sleeping with his sneakers on about 15 minutes before the real mom walked through the door.   
 
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