The division of labor in our house

Heidi woke up sick this morning. She told us so. “I sick.” And then she projectile vomited and we were like: Oh, you mean you’re sick, sick.

Here’s something to consider if you’re single and looking for that special someone to raise a family with one day: If you’re not ‘O.K.’ with vomit, your special someone had better be. That’s because puke and kids go hand in hand. So the next time you’re having a romantic dinner with your lover, lean across the table and take his/her hands, and in your most seductive voice ask, “Hey sexy, are you good with barf?”

I did not ask that question. I asked other silly questions like, “Do you like taking walks?”... or...“Do you prefer island getaways or camping?” Right, cause that information really comes in handy when you’re trying to catch flying upchuck with a Rubbermaid container!

Ben doesn’t ‘do’ puke. He does a lot of other stuff, but not that. Which in part is why I’ve refused to learn how to check the oil in my car or the air in my tires. He’s also the one who pumps the gas. It’s something called a ‘division of labor’ people. He deals with all the auto stuff, and I strip down sheets covered in barf. We’re a team.

His squeamishness extends past vomit and into other territories surrounding the threat of grossness. Like when I went into the hospital to deliver Whitney. It was an early morning, scheduled induction so we stopped for Starbucks on the way. As we were getting out of the car at the hospital, I reached over and grabbed his coffee out of the cup holder.

“Just leave it Meredith.”

“Why, it’s almost full? Don’t you want to bring it in?”

“Oh, I can’t drink that in the room with you.”

“I’m not asking you to eat plate of steaming hot lasagna while I’m pushing out the baby! It’s just a cup of coffee!”

Earlier in my pregnancy, I’d gone in for one of my pre-natal appointments. My doctor’s office had this little waiting area where all the pregnant women sat and waited for the nurses to check their urine samples. Whenever the nurse was done checking mine, she’d come over and say, “Your urine looks good!” Which I guess is better than if she’d said, ‘We’re very disappointed with your urine. Is this the best you can give us?”

So this one day, I’m sitting there watching the nurses shacking around bodily fluids in little plastic jars when one of the doctors walks over to the urine counter with a plate of hot lasagna in one hand and a fork in the other. He just stood there scooping mouthfuls of lasagna into his mouth.

Then, when I got home, I told Ben about it, and we both shrieked ‘GROSS’ at the same time and then he owed me a Coke. But we agreed, we shouldn’t judge Dr. Tomato Sauce because he eats Italian food around urine. So I won’t judge Ben, because he can’t scrape last night’s dinner off Heidi’s sheets. However, my car had better be gassed up by tomorrow morning.