I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For..

Choco Taco (noun): Dessert food which looks like a taco and is made of a waffle cone, vanilla ice cream, fudge, nuts, and dipped in milk chocolate.

Well, it’s Thursday night at 7:46 pm and I’m just now sitting down to hammer this thing out. Truth be told, I’ve been thinking about this story A LOT. For weeks. I’ve been looking forward to sharing because I think it is so funny! Hopefully it’s not a ‘You had to be there’ kind of story. Most of my posts are geared toward moms, but dads, this one is for you. You guys have to perform under pressure time and time again when it comes to keeping your pregnant (or newly not pregnant) wife happy. I know it’s tough. Hopefully you find some way to relate to the poor man in my story. That poor man is my husband, John Fulghum.

Now I feel like I need to preface the story by saying this: My husband is a smart man. He knows more than anyone about what’s going on in current politics to the point where he can very accurately predict what will happen next; he can take anything apart, figure out what’s wrong with it, and fix it; he has a really unique world view and understanding of the way things happen; his sense of humor is far superior to most. I appreciate him. To this day I do not know what was (or wasn’t) running through his head on that particular November evening. Whatever it was, it caused him to act like a complete and total dingus.

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The date was November 26th, 2017. It was my dad’s birthday. I was 4 days postpartum and had only been discharged from the hospital the day before. My family planned a belated Thanksgiving dinner since we were in the hospital with our sweet baby girl on the actual holiday. John, Evelyn, and I loaded up in the car and drove about 45 minutes out to my brother’s house in East Atlanta. We enjoyed a very nice evening with family. That is not what this story is about. This story is about what happened next.

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After we had eaten dinner and enjoyed one another as (some) families do, we packed ourselves back in the car and headed home. Now remember, I was 4 days postpartum. 4. My body was in no way back to normal, but I pushed it anyway because Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and I really wanted to celebrate it properly. **Side note: My sister-in-law and her fiance were SO sweet and brought us a delicious meal to the hospital on Thanksgiving for which I am extremely appreciative. My sister also brought us left overs. You guys are the real deal** About 10 minutes into our drive, something happened. I started to feel the most horrible pain in my lower abdomen. It came on so suddenly. I was sweating, I felt nauseous. I doubled over in pain. We had just passed Grady Hospital and I had considered asking John to turn around. Most wouldn’t know that I am actually the opposite of a hypochondriac in that, unless it’s gushing blood or falling off, I will not go to the doctor. I honestly expected it to be something like gas that would turn out to be a $500 toot later on. However, in that moment in time, dead stopped in traffic on I-75, I considered telling John we needed to find an emergency room. Wasn’t Emory an exit away? I started to panic thinking my bowel had twisted or some other vital organ was not returning to the right spot. Finally, I begged John to pull off at the next exit.

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“What do you need?!” John asked, arguably more panicked than I was. I told him I maybe needed something cold to put on my stomach to relieve some of the pain. He pulled off toward what was probably the sketchiest looking gas station we could have found. The parking lot was paved, however it appeared as if it had been several decades and a small meteor shower since then. The car gallopped over every pothole, the pain deepening with every bounce. “What do you need?!” He asked again. I could barely talk. “Something cold! I don’t know! Something!” With fearful tears in his eyes, John ran into the gas station. I opened the door in case I was going to yack. Some random dudes gave me the one-two-how-do-you-do as I hung out of the car, still buckled into my seat. John was gone for what felt like an eternity. I expected him to come out with an ice-cold water bottle or a frozen dinner or an ice pack. Nope. He gets in the car, and plops two small packages onto my lap. I looked at him in disbelief. Choco. Freaking. Tacos.

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Of all the cold items my husband could have purchased to ease my searing pain, he picked Choco Tacos. I swear the panic we both experienced in the parking lot melted away the second he laid his eyes on a sweet treat. I pictured him busting in the door, fear in his eyes, yelling “I need something for my wife! She may be dying – OOOH ICE CREAM.” Who in any state of consciousness would think that Choco Tacos would be useful in a medical emergency? My one and only, that’s who. “Are you kidding me? YOU BOUGHT ICE CREAM?!”

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I was genuinely pissed. At least I could have drank the water if he had gotten me a cold bottle. What the hell could I do with Choco Tacos? “I thought we could eat them when we get home.”

I rode the rest of the 30 minute drive with Chaco Tacos in my pants.

They melted on the way home and my husband ate them anyway.

And that’s why I love him.

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