What Dignity?

I'm going to preface this post by saying that I love my husband more than anything.  He's an amazing man who loves me far beyond what I think I deserve.

When you're married, there's a certain amount of vulnerability that's needed to truly connect. Sounds sweet, doesn't it?  But usually this vulnerability comes in the form of over-sharing (like I do here, on a blog, with perfect strangers).  You watch each other do every day tasks that aren't always pretty.

My husband has taught our kids to announce it proudly when they've farted or burped.  Teaching Quinn to say "Excuse me" after passing gas was a little like deprogramming.  I'd look into his disbelieving face saying, "No, Sweetie, I know Daddy laughs when you say you farted, but it's polite to say, 'Excuse me.' "

Seriously though, in a house with a husband and five sons, I'm a little desensitized to this kind of thing.  So color me shocked when tonight my husband told me that he wasn't going to mention that he heard me pass gas because he wanted to "preserve my dignity".  I looked around the room.  Were there other people in our bedroom that I'd missed?  Nope, just us and the baby.

Dignity?  This man has seen me cut open, he's caught a baby that came flying out of my hooha, he's seen me sicker than a dog and held my hair.  And this is the same man who taught Bridget how to burp louder than her brothers.  There's no dignity here!  There's just us, living day-in and day-out in the same space and sharing every little intimate detail of each others life.

It may not be pretty, sexy, or romantic, but it's comforting to know that I can be violently ill and he's still going to love me when I'm done.  Dignity has it's place.  But not in a relationship where he likes to ask me to pull his finger.