Today the kids at school reminded me about a time when I was first dating S and ended up with food poisoning.

I told them I knew that S loved me when he wouldn’t let me pick up the dog poop on our nightly walks. He always insisted on doing it.

But, I said, the day that I knew I really loved S, was the day when I crapped myself and he cleaned me up.

I mean, that’s what you really want in a significant other. Someone who will clean up your crap when you are a big old broken mess.

Big L and DW, my own children, got in a big argument one time over whose butt they would be cleaning when me and Old J got old. (Old J is my ex. He is now married to Replacement J. Together they almost come up with one full brain. Almost.)

Big L said there was no way in hell she was going to wipe Old J’s dirty, hairy, old person butt but DW had already called dibs on mine stating that “Mom’s ass will be old and wrinkled, but at least it won’t be furry!” Of course Big L stomped away complaining that DW always got his way being that he was the baby and all.

I can only hope and pray that DW is right and that my ass will not be furry when I am old and wrinkled but who really knows.

The night I crapped myself S and I had eaten some chicken tortilla soup at one of our favorite restaurants. Not long after, my stomach was spasm-ing with pain and then the vomiting and diarrhea began. New in the relationship, I begged for S to go home so he would not witness my feminine mystic become compromised during my massive crap and barf attack but to my obvious horror, S refused to leave.

I finally gave up begging and fell asleep but only moments later, the ultimate embarrassment occurred. I actually crapped myself while sleeping.

I felt the warm muddy liquid spread across my underwear and solidify into a formidable clump of crap. Embarrassed, I covered my eyes and cried for S to leave but he wouldn’t. I ran to the bathroom and shut the door, screaming all the while for S to please go home, but he refused.

When I finally exited the bathroom, clean, but shame-faced, S had changed the entire bed, put down a plastic pad and a towel for my gurgling butt, and left a bucket by the side “just in case.” I knew at that very moment that I loved him. Loved him more than I had ever loved any man because I knew that he was willing to care for me at my worst. Old J only loved me at my best. Whenever I disappointed, I paid.

S never called me Jabba the Hut in a fit of rage…