He didn't even say hello.

I walked down Newbury Street with my two sisters and our mother at the height of our yearly girls' weekend. We were decked out in our high heels and trendy clothes, and heading towards the hippest restaurant on Newbury street, Davio's, where Oprah had eaten just the night before. We chatted like kids and pretended not to look for celebrities.

And then my phone rang.

"You're not going to want to go back to Dillard's," my husband said.

"Oh dear," I sighed. "Tell me what happened."

And with that, he began a tale that made me cringe with regret at having left our three children in his care, foolishly believing I could have a much needed two-day break from motherhood.

He had taken the little ones to the dinosaur play area at the mall. Our middle son, a typical four-year-old at the time, was enjoying himself too much to admit that he had to go to the bathroom.

Badly.

At one point-and apparently this was the tip off to my husband-he held his behind with both hands, optimistically hoping that action might stop whatever process had already been set in place.

My husband took him by the hand to escort him to the nearest bathroom, which happens to be a 2.5-mile trek deep into the very farthest back corner of Dillard's Department Store.

Alas, they would not make it.

It is important to note here, again, that my son was being taken care of by his father-which, of course, meant that he had no underwear on. It also means that they had been fed McDonald's and large amounts of starchy junk foods. You get my drift here, right? I'm just saying...what goes in must come out... So, what his little body produced slid right down his pant leg and onto the glossy tiled floor between the makeup counter and the accessories.

My little boy then looked up at his dad and said, "I'm not done."

Breathless and on the run, my husband and our son jolted into the men's room while the loudspeakers pumped, "Housekeeping 911! HOUSEKEEPING 911!!" throughout the store.

My dear husband was a fugitive, an escapee twitching with paranoia. At one point, he considered cutting and dying his hair Ponyboy fashion, but our son brought him back to the present by saying he was done and ready to continue playing with the dinosaurs.

The clean up job was lengthy, as you can imagine, and when they finished my husband settled on making the shameful journey out incognito in a baseball cap and coat tied around his waist.

I stood still at the crosswalk, my mouth agape, realizing how silly it was for me to think I could actually have a relaxing two-day-break from motherhood.

And then, it occurred to me- I could go back to Dillard's whenever I wanted.

And so could my son. It was the guy who left his kid's poopy in the middle of the store and then tried to escape in a baseball hat that had to watch out. Yes sir-life was just fine for me.

And with that peaceful feeling of contentment, I headed into the restaurant, sat down with my girls and had one of the most relaxing evenings of my life.

Adapted from an original Wendy Brache column pubished in The Broomfield Enterprise, 5/27/07