The pamphlets had it
all wrong. They are all titled "A
Joyous Parenthood," or "Magical Beginnings," or other such trite
nonsense. There's nothing magical about
it. A stroll around your local
hospital's maternity ward will convince you that absolutely any hoodrat can
have a kid.
Ah yes, let's begin
with the beginning. Some people can just
have a kid. Things work out
naturally. But for those of us that need
to take extra steps, they take something fun like sex and turn it into
work. A prescribed regimen. Take something that is supposed to be
spontaneous and free, and turn into a strict diet. Oh yeah, that'll help.
Regardless of how it
happens, when you do get pregnant, there's the constant worrying. Holy crap.
Does the baby have X. Does it
have Y. What's the heart rate. How many weeks are we? 40 weeks of wondering
just what the hell is going on and a slew of medical professionals to shrug
their shoulders and say: Meh! Answer questions vaguely, with no less than
three undistinguishable alternatives and shy away from giving advice. Really simple shit, too. Such as:
Should my son's penis be as big as his head? No answer.
I guess that's day one of medical school.
Worry worry worry
worry worry. For 40 weeks. Pretty much sums up getting to term for me.
And then the day
comes. Or more likely, it doesn't and
they have to make the day come. Come on
in and get drugged up to force that little guy out like a giant turd on a slip
and slide. My wife rebukes me for
comparing the little one to a giant turd, but after 3 hours of solid screaming,
I am somewhat reluctant to change my assessment.
Back to the
inducement. Get the drugs going to move
things along. Nothing happens. Get more drugs to move things along. Nothing happens. Up the dosage. Now we're contracting. Up the dosage. Yeah, up to 4.5 cm. Keep that shit running for a few hours! Get an epidural. Stall at 5cm.
Up the dosage for a few hours.
Still stalled. Almost kill my kid
by turning the wife from the left to the right.
Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME? THAT'S ALL IT TAKES?!?!?! Time to hit you
with the emergency C section at 1;00a.m., when you're too tired and deranged
from a nightmarish deathmarch through labor to know just what the hell you are
signing up for.
Scrub up and go into
the ER, where your wife is tied to the bed, crucify-style. Stand behind the barrier at her head with the
anesthesiologist, who is deeply involved in whatever novel he's reading. Smell the burning flesh as they start to cut
the little guy out. Hear the slopping
sounds as they do whatever the hell they're doing on the other side of the
sheet. See your wife start to shake
uncontrollably as her body reacts to the shock of what she can't feels from the
boobs down. Dr. Reader, our
anesthesiologist, hops up and says you'll be a dad soon, have a look.
For those of you who
run into this situation. DO NOT STAND
UP. There's not much except a Chinese buffet gone horribly, horribly wrong that
can prepare you for what you are about to see.
DAMMIT, WHY DID YOU STAND UP?!?!
Bloody mess of a baby flies out, Lion King hold by the doctor, clamps
come in and they chop him off and send him to the side table. And all I can think is: Is that a vagina on the table?
Hard to track from
watching your new kid and wondering if he's OK vs. seeing your wife
disassembled on the table. Of course I
was happy to see the little guy. How
couldn't you be? I was absolutely
giddy. But when they called out his
weight at 8 lbs, 11.2 oz. I can't help
but think they could have figured out that he wouldn't fit with a simple
ultrasound up front.
More later. The little guy settled down from his 3 hour
screamfest and will need food in 2 hours or less. So, need to crash while I can.
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