Women giving birth a tough audience

For a man, childbirth is all about knowing where and where not to put your hands.

For those who haven?t gotten the memo, the absence of any stories from me in the Sunday edition was not because I was terminated or because I?d gotten lazy. Instead, I was attending the birth of my son, Henry Jay, Friday morning. For those wondering, he was 6 pounds, 7 ounces and, much to his credit, he looks like me.

Unlike when Jack was born over eight years ago, there wasn?t much time for goofing off before the birth. The thunder and lightning we had Friday morning likely accelerated Henry?s dash for the door in the pre-dawn hours, prompting us to drive through the height of the storm to the hospital. It is times like these, when labor starts in a driving storm, that I?m very glad we delivered locally. I?d hate to think of being on the twisty road to Murfreesboro under such pressure and driving in such inclement weather.

We get to the hospital and I have to take Jack to school after I drop my wife off to get checked in. Of course, I?d soon find out my drive back to Dibrell was in vain since school was called off. When I did return to the hospital minutes later, what I found was a wife who was in mid-labor and not a big fan of you know who.

To put it mildly, my wife was an angry woman when she gave birth to our second and, given my advanced age and avoidance of abuse, last child Friday morning, looking at me like I was in some way responsible for the shape she was in.

Her first words to me when I walked into the birthing room were, ?You better not turn that television on a sports channel.? I?m assuming this comment came due to the fact I watched the NASCAR race broadcast from Atlanta during the birth of Jack years ago.

Or, it could have also been because I suggested our baby?s middle name should be Espn. Actually, I thought Espn was a catchy name. She did not.

By the way, had it been a girl, the name would have been Sydney Jane. We went old school this time and decided not to find out until the cat was out of the bag, so to speak.

So, aside from avoiding sports channels, and given the fact I?m neither a medical doctor or nurse, there?s very little I can bring to the child birthing room but humor and a comforting hand. And, as far as humor, there?s very few jokes which will fly when a woman is in labor. Actually, I?d say they are the toughest audience you can dream of, and I?d suspect they are also bad tippers.

As one of her contractions started hitting, I stuck my hand in there for her to grasp being I?m such a great husband and humanitarian. Let me just say I?m thankful I didn?t draw back a nub as she slapped it away like I?d just offered her some half-cooked possum.

I was actually counting the fingers on my hand to make sure she hadn?t made me a cartoon character, given the impact of the blow. Yes, women in labor have superhuman strength. I?m just happy she was in no position to jump up and finish the job.

But hey, if sporting a bruise on my hand is considered my part of the pain of childbirth, I think I?ve got the easy end. I?d hate to think what I?d do if the roles were reversed. Well, actually, I do know. I would have gotten fixed years ago because I ain?t birthin? no babies.

Duane Sherrill is a reporter for the Standard. He can be reached at 473-2191 or by e-mail at [email protected].