Why Telling A Story To A Person Who Has A One Year Old Is Just Not Happening

"Okay, EM, tell me all about Greece ... any flings go down?"

"Yeah, there was a fling ... he was so very cute."

"How did you meet him?"

"He was my Aussie neighbour for 5 days."

"Okay, so tell me how it happened."

"Okay, well it was completely unexpected. I thought he was cute when I met him but figured him to be in his mid-twenties so I kind of nixed that right off the bat. Anyways, we'd see each other out on our balconies and we'd talk and he was really a nice guy to talk to -- "

"Wait, I need to give this little guy a bath. Come upstairs and finish the story then. Here you grab him and I'll take our coffees."

Go upstairs. Take off his clothes. Throw him in the bath. He proceeds to splash the water all over the place. I try to continue my story but get cut off as I try to avoid the soapy suds making its way over to me.

"Okay, so tell me how it happened."

"Well, there was a lot of drama with my friends and the guys they were hanging out with so I stayed back at the hotel when they all went to the beach, and the Aussie was there so we got to talking --"

"Hold on, I need to get him out of the tub. Here can you dry his hair with this towel while I get his night time stuff ready?"

"Sure. So anyways, we got to talking and he thought that I was 24-25."

"Did you tell him your real age?"

"Yup. He obviously didn't care that I was 7 years older. So we were talking and found that we had a lot in --"

"[REDACTED HUSBAND'S NAME]!! CAN YOU GET HIS BOTTLE READY?! BRING IT UP SO HE CAN HAVE HIS MILK. HE HAS TO GO TO BED SOON! Sorry about that."

"No, no. It's okay."

At this point, the husband comes into the room and I don't really feel like divulging any details while he's in the room even though I'm sure he will find out second-hand from the friend.

Kid drinks milk. Kid gets put to bed.

"Okay, let's go finish this coffee on the veranda."

Husband comes out with us. Friend's neighbour comes over. They proceed to talk about fencing and flooding in the backyard and petitioning for four-way stops at the corner of their streets.

I start yawning profusely. I blame jet-lag. I go home.

Sigh. It was a good story too.