Jellybean woke up feeling pretty puny after a full week of coughing and draining. We were thinking about keeping her home from school, but that conflict was violently resolved about two miles from home when, on the way to take The Diva to school, Jellybean coughed, squealed, gagged and threw up all over the place. 

Something told me I’d regret the chocolate milk, which ain't nothin' but nasty the second time around. 

We were already running late and there was no turning back. With only My Lovely Wife's Isotoner gloves to stem the tide, The Diva and I talked as sweetly and soothingly as possible in hopes of calming Jellybean down. With her clothes caked, all the poor thing could do was cry at the horror of the situation. 

So we did the only thing we knew to do: We rolled down the windows, sang songs from “The Wizard of Oz” and pretended like it was just another day in the merry old land of parenthood. To her credit, The Diva did not panic in the midst of the puking. Known to have sympathetic pangs of illness just by talking on the phone with someone who threw-up the day before, she was a real trooper and didn't even complain with the wind blew through her meticulously straightened hair. 

Looking like John Belushi passed out after a weekend bender, Jellybean tried to go to sleep, ignoring the recycled chocolate milk drying all over her favorite (pseudo) leather jacket. I'm not going for shock value with this regurgitated tale of Jellybean's morning misadventures, it's just what happened. And as all parents can attest, humor is the key to sanity. 

But what's really funny is how Jellybean's misery made me realize just how much of my current happiness is owed to vomit. 

Back before My Lovely Wife became so and was instead My Hot Ex-Girlfriend Who Decided We Should Just Be Friends, The Diva's impressive feats of gastrointestinal acrobatics proved that I was a pretty good guy to keep around. It was about seven years ago, and after dating for a little while, well, she dumped me. But we really did remain friends and were thus hanging out (though never officially dating) a lot. 

Then, one fateful night, The Diva got sick—volcanically so. For those who've never had the misfortune to witness such an event, The Diva throws up like nobody's business. There's no conscience or control, and her mastery of sheer distance is like watching Michael Jordan in his prime. Back then, I wasn't aware of the force of nature that was retching in the upstairs bedroom while (now) My Lovely Wife and I were watching “Desperate Housewives” on TiVo downstairs. 

Admittedly, I was a little annoyed to have my potentially romantic evening interrupted, but I quickly went into clean-up mode (OCD has its advantages). I wasn't trying to impress my lady love, I really just wanted to help. Though I had no experience with sick kids, I'd been around dogs my whole life and all they do is poop and puke. So after being told putting The Diva outside until she finished wasn't a good idea, I started with the wet towels and upholstery cleaner. It was a long night, but one from which true love has blossomed. And we've been cleaning up vomit as husband and wife ever since. 

Now that's what I call a happy ending—messy and gross, but happy nonetheless.