Baptism by Fire

Somehow we ended up where we always do. Choking on sobbed laughter, sharing bodily function stories. We just weren't capable of making it through an entire evening without venturing into the realm of throw-up and diarrhea. It was almost Pavlovian: See the relatives, recount a disgusting story.

The only difference last night was that Mr. Wonderful was perched on the couch next to me. It was his first time meeting the immediate family, and despite my threats and pleading, the conversation turned right down that familiar avenue of potty humor.

I didn't look at him while all of us guffawed through our tears. I just hoped he was either amused or meditating quietly in his happy place. But as the chaos died down, I felt his index finger trace lightly across the side of my leg and I knew everything was going to be okay.

He'd weathered the worst of the storm. We were in the clear.

The chit chat and laughter continued—shifting to more acceptable subject matter. My sister thanked him for attending her birthday dinner. She was so thrilled to finally meet him.

And then my nine-year-old niece chimed in...

"Auntie said you were high maintenance but I don't think you are!"

My mom covered her eyes with her hand, shaking her head slightly. My sister slapped her hand over her mouth. See no evil, speak no evil. If only he'd had his hands cupped over his ears.

My mind went momentarily blank, quiet, until the tidal wave of explanation crashed through it, trying to flood my mouth with the right words to explain her remark. I told her that at the movie theater because we were talking about how you absolutely cannot sit in the front row ever. I think it's adorable that you're picky about certain things. I'm glad it's you and not me because I've been accused of being high maintenance my entire dating life. She's nine, she has no idea what she's talking about!

He laughed, "I'm just particular."

And then the fire was out.