My firstborn turns 9 tomorrow. Nine. Every birthday causes me to reflect on the actual births. Most of the time it is sentimental stuff that makes me cry. Tonight I'm reflecting on my husbands crazy shenanigans.
Fast forward through all the gory details to coming home with my son. My husband tells me I have to see the video footage. He turns it on and I am puzzled to see my house. It is a wide angle shot of the front door. It stays this way for a minute and out the door comes Joe. He holds up the rubbermaid bucket I used for cleaning floors and smiles at the camera. The bucket was filled with regurgitated Wendy's chili from the night before. (I did not eat chili in the third trimester of any other of my pregnancies.) Joe comes back in the camera shot a moment later after dumping my bucket of vomit in the woods. My toilet was occupied by my rear end that was spewing pee-poo at an uncontrollable rate, which resulted in the bucket. He smiled at the camera as he passed and went back in the house. A few minutes more go by and the door opens again. Here I come. My face is scrunched into a what appears to be a crazy person straight out of a horror movie. Joe has me by the arm somewhat dragging me to the car. I waddled along with him. My contractions were two minutes apart at this point.
I had no idea the camera was set on the front of the car. He smiled at it again before he shut it off. Puke in a bucket captured on film.