For our first anniversary, Paul asked me months in advance if I'd like to go to the restaurant where we held our wedding luncheon. I thought it was an inspired idea. Shortly thereafter, I found out I was expecting our first child. When the day of our wedding anniversary arrived I not only had been scheduled to work an evening shift but was also deep into the morning sick phase of pregnancy. Not wanting to ruin the day for Paul, I told him we could have a lunch date and I was sure I could handle going out to eat.
For the record, I could not. We sat in the lobby waiting to be seated, and the spicy Mexican-scented air twisted it's way into my nose and became trapped in my throat. My gag reflex triggered and I coughed inconspicuously to relieve the sensation. Paul looked at me with those sweet, concerned eyes. I smiled back, but could tell I was fooling no one. A waitress called our name, showed us to our table, and took our orders. She poured some horchada for us to drink as the chefs prepared our meal. The cinnamon essence was soothing to my nauseous stomach, and I drank it slowly as if it was the last beverage I would ever consume. When my beef enchilada was casually slipped beneath my nose and the steam began to rise in my nostrils I picked up that glass of horchada and began to gulp vigorously, begging my stomach to settle. The waitress brought me a refill. I took alternating swigs of the sweet rice milk and small nibbles of the beef. When the waitress returned to refill my glass again she glanced at my hardly eaten meal and asked if everything was okay. I explained my pregnant predicament and she graciously boxed up my food and sent us on our way with a large to-go cup of horchada (on the house).
Our second anniversary fell on Mother's Day. It was not super romantic. It wasn't really even about us. We focused on our mother's and ignored our anniversary. And I bought myself a hot glue gun. Again, my idea of romance.
Last year May 8th arrived just days after I had my miscarriage. I was still experiencing some bleeding as my body purged itself from the no-longer living tissue. Also, my mom went in for surgery that morning, so despite the fact we had a babysitter for Andrea and a scheduled date, the mood that evening was melancholy. I don't remember what we did or what we ate, but I remember sitting in the car and crying as Paul held my hand and listened. This, I'm sure, is what every man dreams of for an anniversary date. You are welcome, dear husband.
That brings us to this year. Our anniversary was on Wednesday, but without any available sitters we celebrated on Friday. My mom came to my house to keep on eye on Miss Tinklebell so Paul and I could escape to Salt Lake. Despite my attempt to ward of car sickness with some tried-and-true Dramamine, the A/C in Paul's car decided to cease working, and I was nauseous before we made it to the freeway. I spent the next half hour fighting back the lump swelling in my throat, but when we pulled on to the off-ramp close to our under-construction townhouse, a bus belched some putrid exhaust that was promptly sucked into the car and blown into my pregnant nose. I felt my mouth get hot and came to an unpleasant conclusion. I reached behind my seat for the bucket that typically sat there but found nothing. "Pull over," I said through clenched teeth.
"What?" Paul hollered over the radio and blasting air.
"Pull over as soon as possible!" I pinched a pressure point known to help nausea as I tried to stall the eruption forming in my esophagus. The car rounded the corner, and just a block from our soon-to-be home I purged the entire contents of my stomach in the gutter. I know, queen of romance.
Happy Anniversary, Paul! Stick with me, and I promise many more anniversaries laced with tears and puke.
On a positive note, we got see progress on our townhouse! So excited!