Birthday 2009 will go down in history . . .

. . . as the occasion my husband gave me one of his best gifts ever -- something he won't borrow or steal! Of course, this came at a price.

Since April 1^st, my 46^th birthday, fell on a Wednesday during track season, Curt and I agreed to celebrate on the preceding Sunday. That would give Curt time to bake my requested Chocolate Italian Cream Cake. This triple layer confection takes a little time to make and assemble, but the effort is well worth it.

In addition, he prepared to make a dinner of Pasta Carbonera with a spinach salad. Charli spent time assembling a card using old photos and other art supplies. Then together, Curt and Charli set off to purchase my birthday gifts.

When they returned, I was allowed to break into the packages to find: new heavy-duty gardening gloves, an exercise mat and an uninflated yoga ball. I was particularly excited about the latter as I was interested in using it to beef up my stretching routine as I try to get back into an exercise routine.

Initially, I think Curt was excited about it, too. He immediately whisked the floppy blue circle away from me and began the process to inflate it. From the next room, I heard cursing and muttering. Next I heard the whirring of a small motor. More cursing. Finally, I heard the back door open and the porch door slam, and the house was still.

When the door reopened 10 minutes later, Curt spoke with the air of a conqueror, “How’s that?” He plopped the huge blue ball on the floor. Moving my old computer chair away from the computer desk, I rolled the ball into its place and tried it.

“Not bad,” I said bouncing tentatively. “Let me see the booklet. Are there exercises?” I spent a few minutes researching exercises, changed clothes and tried it out.

After my first workout, I was ready for dinner. We had a wonderful meal and ended the day peacefully. Next morning, Curt and I rose early to do exercises together. This routine worked great, and we all got off to school and our work happily. But by afternoon, things were starting to change.

I was preparing dinner when my head began to ache. Curt had missed two days of school the previous week with an intestinal virus that had him puking, aching and feverish. I’d thought I was out of the woods until the headache set in.

By the time Curt came home, I was beginning to get queasy. But I quickly forgot about it when he burst through the door and nearly yelled, “Do you have any cortisone crème or calamine lotion? I’ve got some kind of rash on my hands. Did you change the laundry detergent or something?”

I looked at Curt’s hands and they were red and puffy. His fingers looked like hot dogs. Then I looked at his face and I thought his lower lip would burst! It was like he’d received an overdose of botox – he looked sort of like the Octo-mom only not as pretty.

“You need to go to the emergency room. You’re having an allergic reaction,” I said. “This is serious. We don’t know what’s going on inside.”

As we packed up Charli and her homework, I assured Curt the only new thing in our house was the yoga ball. And the location of his rash matched his points of contact with it. So I drove to the emergency room in Red Oak. While I drove, Curt worked furiously to get his wedding band off his hand before the flesh ballooned out any further.

Charli and I waited in the lobby while the doctor gave Curt two shots, a prescription and observed him to be sure the swelling would subside. I scooted lower and lower in my chair as my stomach got more nauseous. I was plotting the shortest route to an appropriate place to upchuck when Curt was released.

“One of the shots made me kind of drowsy, so I’m not supposed to drive,” Curt reported.

“Well, I don’t think I’m going to make it home before I get sick,” I replied.

As we got in the car to go, I asked Charli to find me something just in case. She pulled the Kleenax out of an old carton, thrusting it at me through the seats with a wad of the tissues. We were not even a mile down the road when the first wave of vomiting struck. I aimed for the tiny round opening of the Kleenax box and prayed the bottom would hold.

Curt pulled to the roadside. I struggled to get the door unlocked and stumbled onto the roadside as the next wave hit. Kneeling by the rear tire, I kept heaving until the last of my lunch, including my second piece of birthday cake came up.

With a near-empty stomach, I was able to make it the rest of the way home easily. Once there, I retired to the couch in my pajamas. Curt lay in his chair dozing while his hands gradually quit throbbing. Unfortunately, the reaction was just beginning to hit his feet, and I heard him spend a restless night upstairs from the itching.

By my official birthday, Curt was well into his prescription and back to normal, and I was weak, but eating again. The benefit to the whole situation is that I finally have something Curt won’t filch. When I was painting, he would steal my brushes. When I worked on paper, he’d take my favorite papers when they suited his purposes. And now he’s even begun to use some of my felt on current pieces.

One year for Christmas, he even bought me a smoothie maker that he wanted.

But this year, I won’t have to worry about my birthday gift walking off.