You know how celebrities and really, really lucky people go around saying things like “I didn’t have a day of morning sickness. I felt great”? That’s just sick, isn’t it?

I can tell you that’s never been me. With both of my pregnancies, I was sick all day, every day, from day one up until delivery. No, make that during delivery. Each passing day, week, month, was a veritable throw down, and all I could do was throw up.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I loved being pregnant. Renting out precious bodily real estate to your beloved future progeny, feeling the baby move, encased in your 9 month time share is one of life’s joys. It’s just the constant hurling I take exception to.

The worst was when I was pregnant with my first son. We nicknamed him Shecky, after comedian Shecky Greene, even though at the time, almost nothing about that pregnancy was funny. But the green part, that was pretty accurate. I was green the whole time. Never mind the swelling, bloating, constant trips to the bathroom, fast food cravings and sleepless nights. My husband and I were in the middle of a major house renovation, which meant that all of this played out in front of a construction crew for the duration. Really, they were so sweet. And patient. They didn’t even seem to mind me heading them off at the pass for dibs on the bathroom during those prime morning hours. But boy, did I mind showing up after one of them.

One of the crew members was this really polite, good looking college kid. As if I didn’t feel old and unattractive enough carrying a basketball around front and center all day, this guy insisted on calling me Mrs. Roy. Somewhere around month six, I woke up so thirsty, it felt like a remake of Laurence of Arabia was being filmed behind my bicuspids. I waddled to the refrigerator for something to drink, poured myself a tall glass of grape juice and guzzled it while standing at the open fridge door. Adjacent to the kitchen was the dining room; full of windows and a set of french doors leading to the garden.

It was particularly quiet that morning, so at the first signs of an almost inevitable volcanic eruption, and the realization that using the downstairs bathroom would only make matters worse, I figured the coast was clear to burst open the french doors, run outside and let go with a force so strong, it made Mount Vesuvius look like a weak elementary school water fountain. I remember thinking to myself “Wow, it’s got a nice arc to it” and the memory of how very vividly purple it was has never escaped me. But perhaps what sticks with me the most, is the expression on Mr. College Co-Ed’s face as he stood there in abject horror, witnessing the humanity of it all. Poor kid. I’ll bet he’s been to less graphic Frat parties.

If I couldn’t leave the house without permanently scarring others for life, I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to accompany my husband to a Lions Club dinner. The event was being held in the private party room of an upscale restaurant, and all the members of the organization and their spouses were in attendance. My husband was new to the organization and wanted to make a good impression, so he scored spots for us at the big-wig table. I was determined to hold my own, as well as my dinner, which was either steak or fish. This was a huge dilemma for me as I hate fish and the smell of any kind of cooked meat was enough to send me hurling over the edge. Literally. But which would smell worse? I decided it would be the fish. And I’m not sure if I was wrong, but let’s just say I found out that day that I can run in heels, especially while pregnant, and that we won’t be going to any more Lions Club dinners.

Naturally I decided to lay low until D-Day. Every smell or bite of food sent me running toward porcelain salvation. So when my due date arrived, I was anxious to get the show on the road. The day, along with its meals, came and went. Nothing. No contractions. Nada.

I read somewhere that spicy food can induce labor, so I suggested to the husband that maybe Indian food would make a good in-flight meal for little Shecky. For some reason, he agreed. We ended up at the all you can eat Indian buffet and somehow I made it through the aloo gobi without aloo gagging.

It wasn’t until sometime after midnight that the contractions finally kicked in, but miraculously, the sickness had not. And after several hours of failed attempts at a vaginal birth, I ended up in the OR strapped to the table, covered in warm blankets to shield me against the cold, sterile environment I now found myself in, with my husband sitting beside me, holding my hand, lovingly reassuring me.

That’s when the nurse brought over a small shot glass containing a strange looking green liquid.

“What’s this? Is it necessary?” I asked. Since I’d already been given an epidural, I didn’t understand what it was for.

“Oh, it’s just something we give everyone so they don’t get sick from the effects of the epidural, and your husband mentioned you’ve had quite a time of it with the morning sickness throughout your pregnancy. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Sure, in theory. But unfortunately we were headed full throttle toward sorry. Or rather, my poor husband was. Because as soon as I downed the anti-vomit elixir, it came back with a vengeance, but without the magnificent arc of my previous achievement. Still, it was a vivid green, and it spewed forth directly into the face of my unsuspecting, and now, thoroughly drenched husband.

“Aren’t you glad you mentioned the morning sickness?” I weakly teased.

“Pfffttt. Funny. Real funny.” he muttered through a veil of goop.

“I think it’s safe to say ‘It’s not easy being green’,” I quipped, “Sorry.”

(This post originally ran on elleroy was here.)

About the author: Linda Roy is the wisecracking writer/musician behind the humor blog elleroy was here. She lives in New Jersey with her husband and two boys who swear she’s the female Larry David. A 2014 BlogHer Voice of the Year for Humor, she is a regular contributor to The Huffington Post and Humor Outcasts. Her work has been featured on numerous websites, including Scary Mommy, In the Powder Room, Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop and BlogHer. She is co-author of several anthologies, including I STILL Just Want To Pee AloneSurviving Mental Illness Through Humor, The Bigger Book of Parenting Tweets, and Clash of the Couples. Kvetch with her on FacebookTwitterPinterestGoogle+Instagram and laugh at her musicomedy on YouTube. No wonder her family is always running out of clean underwear.

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