Sunday night we drove home from my in-laws. Wait. This didn’t start here. This started mid last week when Chris (who very rarely complains and is wonderful almost always) threw a very manly hissy fit about not ever getting to drive the car. I know that in most relationships the guy does the driving. I would be fine with that, except that I get really intense motion sickness. (By intense I’m saying that I have actually vomited from swinging on a porch swing and carry plastic bags in the car just in case. I should own stock in Dramamine, because I could single handedly support the company.) If I am driving, I very rarely get sick, unless I am pregnant, in which case I can get sick just looking at a car. Chris learned very quickly that if the words “pull over” pass my lips he had better obey swiftly, or suffer the foul consequences.

Anyway, the manly hissy fit began with, “You’re not pregnant anymore, why don’t I ever get to drive? Can’t you take something?”

“No, I cannot take something. I am nursing. Not being pregnant simply means that instead of puking in the driveway, I will wait until we are at least off of our block. Not to mention that I hate taking something! It’ll make me stoned for the next six hours.” It really does. Any medication that has a may cause drowsiness warning sticker on it is like saying, “here, Lou, take this elephant tranquilizer. See you next Tuesday.” Chris moped and disappeared into the kitchen. I made a mental note to let him drive some time when I thought I would be fairly stable.

Fast forward to Sunday night. I was tired, and it was late, so I figured traffic would be pretty light. I gave Chris the go ahead. I do ok when I’m moving at a very steady pace, it’s all the stopping and starting, and weaving in and out of traffic, and slamming on your brakes for the jerk who still has Christmas lights up in his rear window and can’t actually see oncoming traffic that makes me heave my dinner onto the shoulder of the road.

It turned out that traffic sucked. I had forgotten that Sunday night in San Francisco is clubbin’ night, and all the clubs open at nine. It was nine. We braked, swerved, dodged, slowed down, sped up, and yelled at the freak with the Christmas lights who tried to change lanes on top of us. I was so green.

I tried to distract myself from the ever growing nausea. My mantra kept rolling through my head. “You are fine. You are fine. You are fine. You are fine. Ohhhh I feel nasty. You are fine. You are fine. I am so going to puke. You are FINE. You are FINE. Maybe I should tell Chris to pull over. . .you are fine youarefineyouarefine. I am so not getting pregnant again. I am not fine. Yes, you are. No. Really. I’m not.” ( The reason the pregnancy thought was in there was because when I am expecting I suffer from an aggravated condition of morning sickness called hyperemesis, which feels exactly like being severely car sick, and makes me puke an average of twenty thousand times in nine months. Every time I get car sick now it serves as a nice reality check for any thoughts I might be having about having another baby.)

At about ten we passed San Rafael and I gave up. There was no way I was going to make it home without vomiting. I told Chris to get off at the next exit. We pulled into a Valero station, I got out of the car, into the rain, and barfed in a nice patch of grass. The gas station guy kept staring at me. I suppose from the back I probably looked pretty weird, convulsing in the misty glow of the headlights while my husband and two kids watched from the car. It probably looked like some sort of weird initiation ceremony. I reached into the car for some tissues.

“Are you ok?” My sweet husband asked.

“I have vomit coming out of my nose.” Really, how would you be if you were in that situation? I don’t think “ok” quite describes it.

I opened the car door again. “I’m driving.” Chris immediately moved to the passenger seat. “You see that?” I asked, pointing to the vomit in the grass. “That’s why you don’t get to drive. I’m going to Wendy’s.”

After throwing back a frosty and some chicken nuggets I felt quite a bit better. The rest of the drive was uneventful, and I suppose the satisfaction of proving to my husband that I still need to drive was worth it. I have a feeling this won’t be an issue again for a long, long time.