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September 22, 6:04 a.m.
So, there I was with my wife's beautifully
bony heel digging into my rib cage during the single most important
minute of my life. I had realized (OK, I was told by the doctor)
that in this particular situation I'd be most useful and least
in-the-way as an inanimate object, so I took the form of a human
pillar, bracing my wife's leg as she did the real work of
delivering our first child. "C'mon, honey, you can
— oww — do it," the pillar gasped.
Just then, I looked down and to my left and saw a
miniature version of my own head — albeit more red, mucousy and
cone-shaped than I like to keep mine — emerging into the outside
world. It was wonderfully surreal. I've been known to
be a bit of a wimp around medical scenes, but this time I held strong
(those wagering that I would take a face-dive on the delivery room
floor can now pay up). And then, with a floop, like a kid at the end of a
water slide, our baby boy was born.
I've spent the preponderance of my
16,509,623-some minutes here on Earth not giving too much thought about
the importance of a minute. But now I've learned this: a
lot can happen in 60 second's time — everything from the
ordinary to the extraordinary. In life terms, every minute, 107
people pass away in this world and 245 are born.
This is the story of one of those births, the
birth of my son... who entered this world at 6:04 a.m. on September
22. This is the story from my perspective, with highlights of what I'd
call the key minutes in the birthing process. If you want to know
how things really happened, though, you'll have to ask my wife.
September 21, 9:13 p.m.
My wife, eight days short of her due date, was,
well, at work. Me, the guy who packs for a two-week vacation five
minutes before leaving for the airport, was, well, sprawled out on the
couch with the dog, delighting in a ballgame on TV and brownie swirl
ice cream in my belly. You're right, it wasn't fair.
By 9:45 p.m., my wife returned from the open house
at her school and we turned our attention to the exciting conclusion of
the reality show The Amazing Race. We cheered when snipey Colin and Christie lost
out to saintly Chip and Kim for the million bucks, but had no idea that
our own amazing race was about to take place later in the night.
September 22, 2:02 a.m.
Our dog Abby, a tall and skinny shepherd mix from
the SPCA, woke us in the wee hours. "What's the
matter with her?" my wife muttered. Abby was circling the
bed, panting, frothing, and occasionally scratching at my jugular.
Just this summer, she had started this strange behavior whenever
thunderstorms approached. So, I rolled out of bed to take a look
out the window. "Not a cloud in the sky," I recall
saying. "I don't know what's gotten into
her." We pulled the covers over our heads and went back to
sleep.
But then, it happened. Not 20 minutes later,
my wife awoke with contraction pains. Concerned with the
possibility that this was it, my wife nudged me and said "I think this is it!
I better call the doctor." Concerned that this was
undeniable proof that my dog is, in fact, a super-genius (a theory
I'd been trying to prove for the past six years), I responded,
"Ha ha, Abby knew it! Abby predicted it, like those dogs
who predict earthquakes and stuff. She predicted it!"
My wife, a little preoccupied, ignored the claims.
September 22, 3:13 a.m.
The staff person on duty at the doctor's
office had told my wife over the phone that if the sensation she was
feeling lasted for another half-hour, she should get to the hospital.
It did, so we went.
I was the dad driving his in-labor wife to the
hospital! No ticket for me on this ride. If I were caught
speeding, the payoff would be a cool police escort to the emergency
room doors. As tempting as that sounded, however, I must confess
that I did drive the speed limit. Safety first, you know.
Just thought I'd throw that in there for a little added
excitement.
After parking the car in a slightly illegal spot,
I helped my wife walk into the hospital and we headed for
labor/delivery. The most active part of my role in the birthing
process was complete — the wonderful nurses took over from there.
From here on out, I would be a one-man cheering section,
supporting my wife with quick encouragements ("you're doing
so great") and dabbing her forehead with a cool, wet cloth.
I won't go into the details of rest of the
delivery, but let's just say that my wife is my hero. She
did it; she delivered our baby with inexplicable focus and resolve.
I was proud to be present in those incredible minutes of our
lives. And now, not one minute of our lives will ever go by
without being thankful for the gift of our son. That — in a
nutshell — is the story of how I became a "newbie
dad."
Brian is the author of "The Newbie Dad," a monthly column appearing in
Western New York Family magazine (Buffalo, NY). The column has also
been read on National Public Radio's Morning Edition for member station
WBFO 88.7 FM in Buffalo and has been published in regional parenting
magazines in such cities as Charlotte, NC, Tulsa, OK, Milwaukee, WI,
and Rochester, NY. For more information or to contact Brian visit his website.
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