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James and I have been together for nearly eight years. That’s a long time for two 20-somethings. During that time he’s seen me deliver a baby and experienced all of the post-partum recovery, including the post-partum bowel movement. Something I’m dreading more than labor this second time around.

Arguably all of that is the most extreme biological experience he could witness. The mother of all bodily fluids.

And yet, up until today, he had never seen me vomit.

You see, a puker I am not. I will talk and breath and cry my way out throwing up because there is little I hate as much in this world. The sound of a broom on a tennis court. Teletubbies. The “ring of fire” during the pushing part of labor. The 1st post-partum bowel movement. And throwing up.

They’re my top five.

There may have been a situation my senior year of college when I mixed a bit too much tequila and vodka and gin and other assorted hard liquors in my system and wound up on the floor of a communal dormitory bathroom, head over toilet, James by my side. I had the spins. I clearly needed to vomit up some of the alcohol slooshing around my body. And yet, there I sat, fighting with every ounce of my stupid, drunk 21-year old self to keep from puking. James even offered to pull the trigger for me as he was fed up with sitting on the cold, hard tiles that were frequented by bare, potentially wart-ridden, coed feet.

I believe my response to his offer was: “I AM A SOLDIER! A FUCKING SOLDIER. Leave me alone.”

Because apparently soldiers don’t throw up. Question mark?

Needless to say, I did not vomit. But the next morning’s hangover was an unmatched beast. James claims that I wouldn’t have felt so shitty had I just thrown up, but I haven’t learned anything for in 28 years of life I’ve never puked from drinking, despite a handful of occasions where that was clearly the best course of action.

Roll around to yesterday, when I developed an upset tummy, indigestion that I blamed on the Sesame Seed, and an unhappy colon which quickly spiraled into a night filled with debilitating nausea. Pair that with a 7-month old fetus boxing me in the gut and a happy mama I was not. I couldn’t sleep and kept marching to the bathroom expecting to be sick. James has seen displays like this before when I swear I’m going to throw up, and save for some gaggy spits of bile, I don’t deliver.

Imagine his surprise when at 7:15am he was awoken to the sound of my vomit. Which, when you have so little in your system thanks to it coming out the other end all night long, is a violent and gut-wrenching affair.

He stood over me, the double-ended water fountain, and told me I was beautiful and that it was going to be ok. He then washed out my bucket of puke, tucked me back in bed, and stroked my hair until I fell asleep.

I have no idea what I did to deserve this man. He’s a 21st Century knight in shining armor.

So, James, thank you for surviving this marital first so brilliantly. To think that puke could make me love you more than ever.

Now I’m off to eat some Gatorade ice chips and James will spend the rest of the evening tracking my urinary output. Midwives’ orders.

Ain’t marriage a beautiful thing?