A few short hours after I was hit with the baby bomb, it was off to dinner with the in-laws. They didn't know that their baby was having a baby and we weren't ready to tell them. It's about an hour drive through darks woods and one horse towns to get where they live, and we were letting it all sink in as we drove along.
I didn't know what to make of the whole thing, but I did know this: I did not feel well. For thirty minutes or so I struggled with an upset stomach. I started to get worried. Was my body trying to tell me that I was in way over my head? Had my brain completely malfunctioned, leaving my more primal instincts to recapture the ship and slap some sense into me?
The last thing I wanted to do was look unsure of myself in front of the glowing mom-to-be, but we had to stop for gas and at that point I had no choice. With my happy wife in the passenger seat, I shoved the gas pump into the tank and headed for the men's room.
It was closed. Out of order. Yellow police tape. Broken plunger lying in a puddle in the hall.
I didn't miss a beat. I burst into the ladies' room, slammed the door behind me, and vomited like it was going out of style. It wasn't an insignificant amount of puke. It was everything I had eaten in recent memory and a good portion of the mess ended up splashing back in my face.
As I cleaned myself up in the sink, the now-clogged toilet gurgling next to me, I looked in the mirror to see a huge smile spread across my face. I had never been happier.
And it's pretty much been that way ever since.
If you're ever in the same boat, I really recommend violent vomiting with reckless abandon. If you can swing it, use the ladies' room. It's better that way.
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