Even eight years of marriage, Hubs and I still contend that pottying is a private endeavor. That’s not to say I don’t poke my head in to grab my toothbrush, but he yelps when I do that, just as I do when he turns the tables.

Which is why, nearly five years ago, I had a sinking feeling each time I remembered the pushing part of my son’s delivery.

While much remained a blur, I distinctly recalled hearing my doula say to the nurse: “Oh, I’ll get that.”

What, I wondered, was the “that”? Could it be … no, surely not.

Months later, I worked up the courage to ask Hubs.

“So when I was pushing during the E-man’s birth, did I — well, you know?”

“Yeah,” Hubs replied with a smirk. “You did.”

Pause. {blink, blink}

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I wailed.

“Because you were postpartum. And hormonal. And I wanted to live,” Hubs said matter-of-factly.

Perhaps this incident was the reason for my abnormal interest in Hubs’ first colonoscopy.

I read him the infamous Dave Barry colonoscopy column. I watched him chug his first round of the prep and then began asking every few minutes — rather gleefully, I admit — if he was feeling the effects yet.

“No,” he said smugly. Again and again.

And then he disappeared into the bathroom for hours.

“Why is Daddy still in the bathroom?” little E-man asked.

“Well, he has to go to the doctor tomorrow,” I said evasively.

“Because he can’t stop pooping?” the E-man inquired.

I found this so hilarious that I insisted on telling Hubs about his son’s conclusion through the bathroom door.

Hubs wasn’t nearly as amused.

The next morning, I sat in a waiting room, flipping through magazines while Hubs underwent his procedure.

Just as I finished my third People, a nurse summoned me to the recovery area. I found Hubs curled up peacefully on a gurney.  Only curtains separated him from the neighboring patients.

“He needs to pass gas before we can let him go,” the nurse informed me.

I felt an evil grin spread across my face.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “When he wakes up, I’ll bring him some Coke.”

Important fact: Hubs’ horror of emitting bodily noises rivals my horror of pooping in delivery rooms.

I leaned over my sedated husband.

“Guess what?” I whispered huskily. “You have to toot before they’ll discharge you.”

I giggled manically. Hubs didn’t stir.

I opened the novel I’d brought along. When the nurse returned with the Coke, we finally roused Hubs.

“You still haven’t tooted!” I cackled.

The nurse looked at me oddly. Perhaps my enthusiasm unnerved her.

When she left, I resumed torturing my spouse.

“Did you hear what she said? You have to toot before we can get out of here. So get busy. I promise, I won’t laugh at you.”

Of course, when he ripped the first one I promptly collapsed into hysterics.

As he continued to make a joyful noise, a patient in the next cubicle asked the nurse what was going on.

“There’s a colonoscopy patient next to you,” she explained.

“Sorry!” Hubs called out groggily.

I snorted and snickered and carried on like a junior high boy until the doctor walked in and shot me a puzzled look.

“Everything looks fine,” he said.

I pulled myself together long enough to listen to the doctor. Then I drove my sleepy husband home.

Hubs doesn’t remember any of my juvenile recovery-room antics.

But now, at last, I consider us even in the Arena of Indignities.