My third day living in Charlotte wasn’t exactly my best.

Back in 2014, my husband and I made the rather transformative decision to move to Charlotte from our beloved Cleveland, Ohio.

I was the new mom to a nine-month-old baby girl and felt that the demands of being a mom were starting to outweigh the demands of being a successful business professional. And, his only path to moving forward in his career meant moving to a new city.

And, so, just a few months after making that leap of faith, I found myself desperate and annoyed in a giant rented cookie-cutter house (a far cry from our small century home in Ohio). And, of course, it was cluttered with an unfathomable number of boxes strewn throughout every nook and cranny.

My only cohorts in this mess? A babbling baby and two curious beagles.

Being the consummate planner, however, I had signed the baby and I up for music classes at a nearby facility in Charlotte. This, I believed, would be my perfect entry point into the world of SAHMism!

When we moved to the rental house in Charlotte, we still hadn’t received the necessary approvals to build a fence in our backyard for said beagles (thanks, HOA). This, of course, meant that I had to cart baby and I outside with leashed dogs every time the pair needed to do their business.

That was all fine and good until the rain came. And, it rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained. Needless to say, it turned the backyard into a muddy, sloppy swamp.

Not exactly optimal conditions in my predicament, eh?

So, 20 minutes before my anticipated music class, I put on my best yoga pants, got the baby in her rain gear, grabbed an umbrella, leashed the dogs and took them outside.

Ever tried to hold a baby in a rainstorm? How about while also holding an umbrella and two dog leashes attached to a pair of canines who—by the way—just so happen to be petrified of thunder storms?

A blustery wind blew and the umbrella turned itself inside out. The baby and I were soaked. The beagles, thanks to their irrational fear of nature, were attempting to run, scatter and hide.

They pulled relentlessly in opposite directions, which resulted in me losing my footing, slipping on a mud puddle and landing me, baby and dogs on the porch step behind us.

But now baby was covered in mud splatters, which necessitated a wardrobe change (did I mention I was a first-time mom?). My yoga pants had seen better days, but the moms at music class would just have to endure seeing me in all my realness. I was determined to be on time.

And, so we arrived at music class—my child looking preciously perfect and me looking like I’d just taken a bikram yoga class in a Southeast Asian monsoon.

An exuberant and friendly teacher welcomed us into a cute, colorful classroom that was adorned in drums and bells and bubbles. The other moms—who all appeared to know each other—held their bambinos on the floor, each child playing happily. I was met with warm smiles and quiet hellos.

I thought to myself: “Will she be my new best friend? How about her? Oh my gosh, what if this is my ‘Mom Tribe?!’ This is it! This is it!”

“Join us on the carpet,” encouraged the teacher. She pointed to the woven round carpet in the middle of the room that appeared to be the centerpoint of what I was sure would be the most rewarding start to my life as a SAHM.

Because of the room’s positioning, I had to walk on the carpet, pivot and sit down on the floor with my legs crossed and baby in my lap.

And, that’s when I saw it. A long trail of brown stains smudged and clumped across the carpet…and the floor…and my shoes…and my pants…and my baby.

The teacher and I spotted it at the same time.

“Oh my gosh! I must’ve tracked mud in here! Let me clean it up. I’m so so so sorry,” I said hysterically. I was mortified as all the moms swiftly removed their babies from this beloved carpet.

I stumbled all over the place as I realized the mud was covering my shoes and now caked on the back of my pants. I ran to the sink and started scraping it off my shoes, the carpet and the floor.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s mud,” said one of the moms as she squinted at the newly discovered scent.

“Yep, definitely not mud,” quipped another annoyed mom.

NO! What?

IT. WAS. DOG. POOP. Everywhere.

There was no denying it. The place stunk. I stunk. Everything stunk. I thought I had slipped on a mud puddle in the backyard. Turns out, it was straight dog poop.

As I was frantically apologizing and trying to get the dog crap off my shoes, I momentarily lost sight of the baby. She’d just discovered crawling and was loving the classroom’s elaborate collection of shiny, rainbow-y objects.

Just as I realized she’d moved out of my sightline, I saw it: My beautiful blonde cherub, who now had a few smears of brown on her adorable yellow jumper, was clenching a small clump of – OH GOD – dog poop. Jaw wide open and fist moving inward, that brown mass of nastiness was headed toward her mouth.

“Nooooooooooooooo!!!” I shouted from across the room.

And, just like that, she ate it. Right. Down. The hatch.

You guys. My kid ate dog sh*t.

And, everyone was horrified.

The end.