adventures in becoming a father (over-sharing)

This post is PG-13, so if you’re prudish or under 16 or Baptist—look away.

So Jessica and I visited our midwife today. OK, so I LOVE all of the midwives that work here in Nashville. Emma is our regular midwife and she is my favorite. She’s cynical about life–like me. And we get along perfectly. She has this great story about a childhood friend paying her one dollar every Sunday to go church with her.

“Did you go?” I asked.

“Every Sunday! I needed the money,” she said. “But finally, I got tired of being told I was going to Hell, so the money ended up not being worth it. I eventually told her that she could keep her dollar!”

But we didn’t see Emma today because she was busy delivering babies.

Today, Jessica and I saw the midwife Linda–she’s great too. (FYI: if you’re not a regular reader of my blog, you should know that my wife is 38-weeks pregnant and showing a few signs that the end (or the beginning) is getting close.

When Linda walked in, I was sitting in the chair next to the bed where Jessica is resting. “Help me up!” she said, looking uncomfortably at me. As I help her up, I’m thinking to myself: I can’t get used to seeing my wife look this uncomfortable. Please, God, make this baby come a little early!

Seriously, friends, it’s like my wife’s lugging around a suitcase, the kind that Southwest won’t let you check without paying an extra $20. (You know what I mean?) I so want to carry the suitcase–maybe stand in front of her and walk backwards with my hands under her belly–but I can’t.

So anyway, there she is on the bed holding a big load of extra baggage and looking uncomfortable.

“You’re looking good, Jessica!” says Linda “checking” my wife. “You could go at any time. It seems to me that you guys are doing your jobs! You two must be having lots of ….”

OK, that’s when Linda said three words (long words, like three or four syllables each). I couldn’t pronounce these words. I don’t know how to spell them so I can’t even google them to learn how to pronounce them. They were words I had never heard in my life. I looked at Jessica who of course knew exactly what they meant.

“Yes, we’ve been having sex,” says Jessica. My wife knows everything there is to know about giving birth. She’s like the Dalai Lama of childbearing. (I realize that makes no sense, but at 11:09 in the evening it seems really funny to me.)

Anyway, I think to myself, those three long words mean sex? Come on, I know every slang term for sex and I’ve never heard these words. Which of course, probably means the words are “medical” in nature. Nevertheless, they didn’t sound like sex; they sounded like procedure of some kind, one that would require rubber gloves and a mask. And maybe a torch for welding. But not sex.

“Oh, I know you’ve been having sex, girl,” said the midwife, “I can tell. You should be having (she drops those three big words again) everyday!”–she looks at me and smiles like I should get up and put the moves on my wife right there–“That will help get this little guy out.”

Then Jessica looks at me and says, “See? I told you we should be doing it every day!”

And then the midwife looks at me and shakes her head in agreement with my wife.

You probably believe I should be jumping up and down at this point, right? Sex! Sex! Sex! I mean, it’s every person’s dream to be prescribed sexual activity by a medical professional, right? Maybe on some occasions.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the role that I get to play in helping little Elias come into the world. It’s sex. It started with sex. And apparently it ends with sex too. You think to yourself, Wow, God is cool to put so much sex into this gig of giving birth, right? I’m not so sure. Doesn’t God remember that my wife is nine-months pregnant? I mean, can’t he see that the poor thing can hardly get up off the couch to get into the bedroom at this point? Apparently, he doesn’t pay much attention to what goes on in our living room every time she has to get up off the couch to pee or when she goes to bed. If he did, he’d know that the last thing in the world that she should want right then is sex.

Here’s what happens… She looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Well, I guess I should get to bed; I’m tired.” And then she feels her belly and pushes at it from one side as she moans and rolls over onto her side. And then she rolls her eyes again at me as she props her little hand against the sofa’s arm rest and pushes herself into the seated position. (Meanwhile, I’m usually watching her do this from the other couch–eating popcorn–wanting to help, but not sure how.) And then she uses both hands to lift herself up into standing position. The whole ordeal takes like three or four minutes give or take an hour. It’s excruciating to watch. And again, I’m the one eating popcorn.

As soon as Jessica has made the first step toward the bedroom, she looks at me and says, “OK, let’s go have sex.”

“Have sex? Now? Really? You can barely walk! I’ll kill you or something.”

“I know,” she says to me, “But I want this kid out of here. So the pain is worth it.”

Oh great, that gets me in the mood for sure. “Are you sure?”

“YES! Come on.”

So we go have sex. And it feels good, but in an illegal sort of way. Like I should run away and hide from the cops afterward.

Anyway, there’s no point to this story whatsoever. I just thought I’d over share my adventures in becoming a father… oh, and forgive the grammatical errors… it’s late and I don’t feel like editing myself. 🙂

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