The other night I asked my six-year-old to please put both feet under the table when he eats.

I say it perhaps four times a meal, every meal of the day. And have for at least two years. The kid can’t sit still, and since he realized he can plant his feet off to the side of the chair and wiggle around while technically being seated, he’s unstoppable.

He usually rolls his eyes and whines, “Mooooooom,” then puts one of the legs temporarily under the table. But this time he grimaced and muttered, “Mean-ie, mean-ie, poo-poo-tini.”

Yes, of course I told him that we don’t call names. Right after I shot sparkling water through my nose and stifled the most painfully needed laugh of 2013. But between the two-year-old’s peals of infectious laughter and my undisguised mirth when I asked, “Did you just call me a Poopootini?” I’m pretty sure this name will stick.

So, like it or not, I’ve found my signature drink. I’m not sure how one makes a poopootini, but I’m pretty sure it involves kahlua and chocolate.

It had better involve Kahlua and chocolate. And not much else.

At least, that’s what I hope when my children run past me, partners-in-crime at last, grinning as though they’ve found the secret to eternal happiness, calling me Meanie Meanie Poopootini before carrying on with whatever plot they’ve devised for either seeking or hiding.

Is it terribly wrong that I find this behavior hilarious? Be honest. I won’t call you a meanie, for now I can’t say that without wanting an adult beverage.