The Final Countdown

We are down to the last few days. I will be a father sometime in the month of August.

The doctors have decided Brooke’s gestational diabetes necessitates the birth of our baby soon. They have decided if the baby does not come by the due date of Aug. 28, we will induce. We have chosen the very next day. We’ll be at the hospital by 6 a.m. Aug. 29.

This kind of takes a little of the fun out of it. If your idea of fun is me getting a call at work or the grocery store or my fantasy football draft or the Frisch’s all-you-can-eat salad bar and panicking, frantically driving home to throw my pregnant wife in the car and burn rubber on the 20-minute drive to the hospital.

Now that we know the day and time, it will be a genteel ride with no traffic – who’s on the road at 5:30 a.m., hookers getting off the night shift? – and me driving a leisurely 45 mph. I probably won't even turn on my radar detector because cops aren't up that early, are they?

What am I expecting at the hospital? Well….

I anticipate a lot of pain. I’ve got mad respect for mothers. I have no idea how they do what they do. The best engineers in the world can’t figure out how to fit an object that large through an opening that small. I expect Brooke to scream and yell like she’s at an English soccer match. As she says, it would be like me passing a kidney stone the size of a basketball. Triple ouch.

I anticipate being the bad guy. I’ve seen the TV shows. Inevitably, the mothers yell at the fathers for getting them pregnant and putting them in this situation. My wife is a saint, but under these conditions, even she might crack. My thick skin will take the insults and I will rely on my cat-like quickness to escape or deflect any blows she throws my way.

I expect to see some things I really don’t want to see. Remember why they call Ms. Nasty by that name – she tells you how it is in there. It is like Normandy on D-Day. There will be blood and guts everywhere and I will be right in the middle. I might need ear plugs, nose plugs and some of those blinders race horses wear, but I am going to gut it out.

I expect to be tired. One friend told me to pitch a tent, I’ll be there awhile. His wife went in on a Friday and gave birth on a Sunday. Oh joy. Sleep will be nearly impossible and I am expected to work the whole time I am there. I practiced my massage techniques in one of the birthing classes and my hands were tired after about five minutes. I’m expected to do much more when the doctor yells “Action” for real. I’m not exactly Richard Simmons when it comes to physical activity.

I anticipate some boredom. If this plays out as long as some people say, there’s going to be some down time. Will they have wi-fi for my computer? How many channels does the TV get? Will we watch Brooke’s reality TV shows or can I convince her to take in a true-crime murder on the ID Channel? That’s the way to put her in the birthing mood -- kids who kill their parents. Lord knows I don’t care who the hell The Bachelorette picks. If I have to watch enough of those reality shows, I’ll beg Brooke to let me trade places with her.

I expect to be nervous. Scared is more like it. My heart pounds now thinking about it. I know even in this day and age of modern medical technology, child birth is not without risks. The thought that something might happen to this sweet little daughter we have dreamed of scares the hell out of me. Sure, I am nervous that she have all her fingers and toes and she comes out as perfect as possible, but I am scared that something worse could happen. I pray this goes smoothly.

I’m even more worried about something happening to my best friend. We’re signed to a lifetime contract. It took me 45 years to find someone to spend the rest of my life with, and I don’t want to lose her. Everyone always accused me of waiting for the perfect woman. I was just waiting for the right woman. I will not part with her, not even for the sake of my daughter. I don’t even know if I could be a parent without Brooke to guide and support me.

But most of all, I expect the unexpected. Something is going to happen to me when my little girl finally comes into this world, and I can’t wait to feel what it is. I joke about my lack of enthusiasm for the pomp and circumstance surrounding pregnancy. I exaggerate my ineptness at parenting. I make fun of my perceived lack of excitement. The truth is, this is the biggest thing that will ever happen to me. Holding her will be like looking back at my past and into my future all at the same time. Those first few minutes, I am going to shut out everything in that room and connect with my daughter. It is not often you meet someone whom you know will completely change your life forever. “Hello, Sydney, I’m daddy. You’re so beautiful. You’re going to make this world a better place.”   

I am thrilled for the future. I am excited about this beautiful little girl bringing youth back into my life. Suddenly, I'll be transported back 35 years. I’ll roll around on the floor like a kid. I’ll laugh at cartoons. I'll play hide and seek. Halloween will frighten me again. I’ll place her tiny hand in mine and we will run through the puddles instead of around them.

This is the end of the pregnancy, but the beginning of the journey.