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My Wife is Having a Baby

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My wife is having a baby. I make that perfectly clear because I once said, “We’re pregnant,” and was darn near lynched by every female member of my immediate and extended family. Gramma J said I was “speaking beyond my house of knowledge, well into the forest of stupidity.” The neighbor’s twin girls swooshed their little identical fingers at me and said “bad” which sounds horrid echoing from four-year-old bookend redheads. Aunt Dora schooled me on her delivery agony by reenacting her birthing-pain shriek, a performance she normally reserves for baby showers.

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          We already have three children – all boys. They busy themselves with wholesome entertainment like flushing my baseball card collection down the toilet or sowing my lawn with small toys because ‘it makes Daddy’s lawnmower do fireworks.’ And we want more of this? Not to mention the nine months of tight clothes, back pain, and water retention all climaxed by humiliating contortions commonly described in medical terms as, “the delivery.” My wife says the act of childbirth is a wonderful, joyous event. She is excited about the delivery. Personally, I think it’s like having an appointment to be hit by a bus.

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            Don’t get me wrong. I want to have a baby, too. I would just like to get it without going through the delivery process. Mail order would be nice. It is painfully apparent my wife does not recall her last three deliveries. Obviously, she can’t remember the discomfort, the pushing, the panting, the probing, and the swearing – and that was just filling out the hospital forms.

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            As if the delivery isn’t uncomfortable enough, my wife insists on ‘natural’ childbirth. This is a subject on which our opinions tend to vastly differ. To my wife, ‘natural’ childbirth means a bright hospital room, a large nurse (so large you would think she was having the baby), and a doctor who arrives in golf shoes ten minutes after the baby is born. The doctor will congratulate us both and say it was a successful delivery mainly because he arrived in time to sign the bill. The only thing ‘natural’ about this childbirth scenario is that there’s no anesthesia. She did not appreciate my suggestion to continue this practice into her dental care.

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            Conversely, I never gave the delivery process much thought. I was the Breathing Coach. Natural childbirth was not mentioned in the human reproductive system film (my only formal sex education) I watched during my junior high school biology class. What I actually learned about natural childbirth was from an old western movie where the couple’s wagon broke down in the wilderness. The delivery process was fairly straight forward. The woman quietly goes off alone into the woods and returns with a sticky baby covered in pine needles and other forest debris – Ta-dah.  

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Now that I’ve been through this delivery process three times, I realize I have taken my wife’s effort too lightly. I also conclude that my contribution to the entire baby-making process is nominal, at best. My wife gives me more credit than I deserve. She reminds me that we’re in this together, like a team, a 50/50 partnership. That’s why we’re going to do it her way. I’ll do my best to help. Designated as the Breathing Coach, I’ll try to recall the breathing exercises that I learned three births ago. My memory got a bit hazy at one point during our last delivery because I had to be Breathing Coach and NASCAR-driver on the way to the hospital. When I slid our minivan sideways at the emergency entrance, we were both treated for hyperventilation. Perhaps I’m not the best Breathing Coach so I resigned myself to just hold her hand and never let go.

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            Once, I did let go during our second childbirth. My wife had been in labor for twenty-six hours. I needed a rest from the exhausting pace as Breathing Coach. I let go of her hand to take a break, which is mandatory in the Breathing Coaches’ Union. Therefore, I thought I’d simply stand bed side and watch the show – the show that was on the wall-mounted television. Unfortunately, the television proved to be an obstacle, as it was mounted so high on the wall that I had to stand on a chair to turn up the volume. But the huge nurse kept turning down the volume remotely before tucking the control unit back in her proportionally small cleavage. No problem. I can do without volume. I’m familiar with that particular game show, anyway. Answering the questions without volume somehow made the show more intriguing. The first question, “What is the capitol of Zimbabwe?” I should know this one. Is it Mozambique? Harare? Salisbury? Zaireeer-ouch!  

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            Caught unawares during a particularly painful contraction, my wife squeezed the inside of my arm. Without provocation, she pinched the tender inside of my upper arm, the soft flabby part, the part of Aunt Eleanor’s arm that still touches the table while she sips from her tea cup. Her contraction lasted about twenty-six-thousand hours because that’s exactly how long she squeezed my now limp, dangling, lifeless appendage. For months afterwards, I had a bruise on the inside of my arm that I can only describe as both the size and shape of Bolivia. I remember the pain of childbirth quite vividly.

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            I still can’t understand my wife’s desire to repeat such an uncomfortable event – childbirth. It doesn’t take me many times to learn from painful experiences. I don’t need to hit my thumb twice to learn not to hammer a nail with a pipe wrench. I don’t need to lose my eyebrows twice to learn not to wait 30 minutes between turning on the gas and actually lighting the barbecue. But that’s just me.

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            During this delivery, my wife will be running the show – not the game show host, nor the doctor (he’ll be on the 19th hole). So, I will stand patiently by her side and do what I can. I’ll hold her hand, encourage her to breathe – as if she might forget. And throughout the entire ordeal, I’ll just grin and bear it.

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            On this particular delivery, the doctor did arrive in time and promptly began his examination. I continued my hand-holding, encouragement, and breathing regiment. The doctor whispered, “Meconium” to the large nurse siding him. She immediately spun and left the room. Three minutes later, a four-member team of nurses pushed through the door with their crash cart. I knew right away that these nurses were the Infant Resuscitation Team.

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            My wife was unaware of the doctor’s call for assistance, so I continued my breathing and encouragement as if not alarmed. But I was. From my limited medical training I knew Meconium was infant feces. Meconium is normally contained inside the baby until after the birth. Meconium-stained amniotic fluid is a sign of fetal distress. That’s why the doctor called for the Infant Resuscitation Team.

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            The Infant Resuscitation Team barged through the door and ordered me to the back of the room, against the far wall, away from my wife. Instantly, I was no longer a participant in my child’s birth, holding my wife’s hand, encouraging her. I was relegated to the distant wall as a helpless spectator to the harrowing events unfolding beyond my control.

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            The moments passed painfully slow. When our daughter was born the doctor quickly handed her to the head Infant Resuscitation Nurse. The four nurses checked her heart and lungs, temperature and pulse. All vital signs were normal. Satisfied that our new daughter was in healthy shape, they presented her to my wife. Only then was I allowed to rejoin my wife and welcome our new baby girl.

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            After the Infant Resuscitation Team gave us their congratulations and left the room, I was overwhelmed by a flush of adrenalin and the flood of so many what if’s? I was astonished at how quickly life can change. In an instant. Unexpectedly. From that day forward, I vowed to dedicate my life to my family. From that day forward, I swore I’d appreciate everything and take nothing for granted. While holding my new healthy infant daughter, I vowed to cherish every moment with my family. I vowed to participate in every family event, every family activity, and every family function – unless of course, it involved changing diapers.**