Daddy's Coming Honey!



Licensed Practitioning Mother

This woman—do you know what she did? She passed one of the most notoriously difficult exams in the United States, and has now become a Licenced Practicional Counselor. She did this while seven months pregnant. Behold, a Renaissance Woman!

There are things you can’t obtain certifications for: Skydiving with elephants, selling snake oil as a cure for disease, giving tours of the moon, testing move-about-freely-at-your-leisure roller-coasters, being a parent. In the eyes of most of the world, you can’t be fully qualified. You can only be unqualified. Like if you screw up big time. Big time. But if anyone deserves a certificate, it is my wife. If all goes well, she is going to deliver our child by natural means.

I deserve a certificate too. Men should be given something akin to the purple heart for undergoing what I have gone through. I do need ask for your prayers or tears, but I must tell the world that I have witnessed over nine live births in the past two months. Ok, when I say live, I mean that I saw films of live births.

We’ve seen it all: Documentaries of women whelping as alien beings emerged from places nothing that large should emerge from, families in the bedroom mesmerized and captivated, children wide-eyed and curious, mothers calmly kneading dough at the kitchen table and telling us the process was a success, doctors slicing in places knives should not be unless there is an emergency, babies with heads so warped from birth the father is left wondering if his wife had an affair with a cone-head, and—to top it all off—unshaved Brazilian women in a zen-like stance of complete serenity, pushing out dark hairy babies as easy as one squeezes chocolate icing on a cake.

And yet nothing, no single image from the preserved kinescopes of cinematic horror, equals the Lovecraftian emergence of a placenta. No nightmare from Stephen King, Wes Craven, Stuart Gordon or Clive Barker can compare to this.

And yet they call it beautiful. I think you have to be in the heat of the moment to call it beautiful. Or have the desensitized antennae of an OBGYN.

Why am I doing this? Why don’t I let the doctor just slice ‘er up while I sit patiently in the lobby?

Your first thought could be that we are one of THOSE couples. Yes, everyone else hates their children and doesn’t care about anything, but we’re better than you because we’re doing birth the RIGHT way. Well, to tell the truth, the way God designed it is the best way, but lest you think we’re one of THOSE couples, keep in this in mind: We’re just doing what we know is best from what we’ve learned.

So do I think that if you are one of those fathers who waited in the lobby while your child was born that you are a failure? No. Are you a failure if you were in a mandatory meeting and had no choice but to miss your child’s birth you are a failure? No. If you sat in a bar on the day of your child’s birth and drank away your idealized manhood and drowned in sorrow because the nightmare of fatherhood would ruin your lifestyle—then you would have been a failure.

Not all vegans look down on meat-eaters. Not all recyclers look down on garbage-in-garbage-out-toss-it-and-forget-it consumers. Not all voters look down on non-voters. Not all gun owners look down on non-gun-owners. Not all tie-wearers look down on non-tie-wearers. Not all G-rated-moviegoers look down on PG13-rated-moviegoers. So don’t assume we are THAT elitist couple. But do know that we encourage you to try it out next time you get knocked up. And we will be more validated proponents after the birth, if everything goes well. Then we might be that couple. And if so, please rebuke us, not for our advocacy, but for our ‘tude.

What you must know is this Lots of couples go around saying “yeah, we wanna try natural birth,” then show up all panicky at the hospital and she gets an epidural before you can say “watch where you stick that.” They take the obedience classes the hospital offers and learn to pant like a hot dog until the doctor comes in to pump you full of roids.

My wife is the expert between us, but we’ve been preparing for the Bradley method, a tried-and-true method of pushing out the baby without the use of any drugs or stabbing weapons. And just think about it: Shouldn’t that be the logical way to go, lest there be an emergency?

Why am I involved in this? Because the husband is the coach. Certified Licensed Birth-coaching Husband. Some say a real man hides himself away during this womanly demonstration and doesn’t surround himself with the workings of the womb. I say if you start it, you should finish it. A real man gets in there and takes responsibility for what he made. So if you make fun of me, I promise you we will become THAT couple.

So if all goes well, we will have a natural, lucid, joyful birth, and within minutes of entering seeing him enter this world we will be holding little—

oh, wait. I haven’t told you his name yet. Should I?

No. Ah! Wait a second.

How about I give you a clue? Let’s just say he won’t be a fighter or a fleer, but a floater. Let’s just say he’s going to look out that hospital window and see a rainbow. Let’s just say he could grow up to be a great zookeeper. Let’s just say he’s going to try out his sea legs. Let’s just say he better not drink too much wine off the vine. Let’s just say his life will end up being an incredible…arc.

No. Ah! Never-mind. You’ll figure it out eventually.

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