MODERN DAD | By Jon Show

Oct. 18. That’s right. Sixteen. Let me tell you how rewarding it is to live with a 16-year-old.

Most of his communication is in the form of grunts. He simultaneously needs things from me and wants nothing to do with me. As I write this, he just fell down the stairs because apparently he can’t walk and look at himself in the mirror at the same time.

He also never reads these columns, so let’s commemorate his special day by telling the story of his birth.

I came home on the night of February 13, 2008, and the Mother of Dragons happily emerged from the bathroom with a test that had two little blue stripes on it. She was pregnant.

Again, she was pregnant. We were not pregnant. This is an important detail that gets lost with some people. You, sir, comparatively, are doing next to nothing for 40 weeks. There is no we in pregnant.

From that February moment on, a lengthy and detailed planning process began that makes the preparation for an oxygen-free trek to Mount Everest look like a trip to the grocery store.

After a lot of research, the soon-to-be Mother of Dragon sat me down and asked me to review the birth plan she had orchestrated, which I didn’t know was necessary because billions of humans for thousands of years all followed roughly the same plan.

Get pregnant. Have a baby.

Boy in the bubble

This birth plan was a ten-page document that detailed every step on that fateful day. Where the go-bag was located. The preferred route to the hospital. The music playlist for the delivery room. Every step I needed to follow to ensure a successful, natural, drug-free childbirth.

She placed a heavy emphasis on natural and drug free. No chemical was entering our baby.

The plan included a whole bunch of other things that I can’t remember because, frankly, I wasn’t listening the entire time. I’m not a very good listener.

At some point around month five she discovered I wasn’t retaining all of the information she was passing along so she informed me that she was hiring an assistant to take my place.

I am not kidding.

The woman was called a doula (pronounced DOO-luh) and ours would be with us step by step on the big day. It seemed a little ridiculous to me but it also meant I didn’t have to memorize the birth plan so I played along.

But I’m also not easy to live with so I didn’t make it easy. The word doula comes from a Greek word that means female servant, so I refused to call her by her name and referred to her only as The Greek Birth Giver.

Bridge over troubled water

The night before Future Man was born we ate steaks at Sullivan’s Steakhouse and retired home for the night, and she awoke me at roughly 5am to tell me her water had broke.

I knew the birth plan called for laboring at home for a period of time, but I was awake and couldn’t do anything, so I started doing things around the house that I’d been avoiding.

I replaced an electrical socket. Cleaned the yard. Did some laundry. Cleaned the laundry room. I think I even made the bed and did a whole bunch of other stuff I can’t remember.

Three hours later she still wasn’t ready to go, so I went to the grocery store and spent two hours preparing four nights of dinners.

After that she still wasn’t ready to go, so I grabbed my cleats and went to my Sunday night soccer game because she was tired of me being in the house. We won the game.

I arrived home and showered and she decided it was time, so we went. When we got there they told us she wasn’t in full-blown labor. She tried to go home. They said no and she angrily scarfed an apple she smuggled into the examination room.

For 35 hours she paced the floors of Presbyterian Hospital. She bounced on balls. She did lunges. I made her cups of chicken broth because she only brought one apple. The labor wouldn’t progress.

While she paced along at hour 20, I fell asleep on the world’s worst pull out chair while watching Seinfeld episodes on Netflix. If you’ve a father you know that pull out chair. It’s objectively the worst.

Slip sliding away

I awoke the next morning and the status was still the same. My sister-in-law – Nurse Ratchet – and The Greek Birth Giver arrived to offer assistance that wasn’t yet needed but they came anyway.

I decided to take a shower, fell over backwards because delivery room showers have a weird back wall design and tweaked my knee.

When I exited the shower, limping and seeking sympathy, I found The Greek Birth Giver brushing The Mother of Dragon’s hair, and Nurse Ratchet rubbing oil her feet while Ani DeFranco played on the Bluetooth speaker.

If someone had entered the room they would’ve (possibly correctly) assumed I was merely the sperm donor.

More time went by and – after hours of protest – she finally agreed to get the first chemical, which would induce labor. That drove her pain through the roof until she finally agreed to a second chemical – the epidural.

The birth plan was in shambles.

All the drugs kicked in and she finally fell asleep for the first time in a day and a half, so I went to get some food from the cafeteria, and 30 minutes later my mom ran down (yes, she was there too) and told me it was go time.

I arrived, put on a gown and made uncomfortable eye contact with The Greek Birth Giver, who clearly wasn’t taking the hint that I didn’t want her there. After all, the birth plan never progressed past “drive to the hospital.”

But it was push time.

Born at the right time

The Greek Birth Giver and I were told to chicken wing (my words) The Mother of Dragons, by wrapping one arm around the headrail and the other around the bend of one knee. The doctor yelled PUSH, and as Future Man came into this world I was looking into the eyes of a woman whose name I did not know and would never see again.

It’s hard to describe the feeling you get when you have a kid. This is from a man’s perspective, obviously. I would never feign to have any idea what it’s like to actually carry and birth a child.

One of the emotions was definitely confusion. Like, you guys are just going to let me leave here with this thing? I still can’t believe you get to have a kid without any sort of instruction. You need a license to drive a forklift but they just hand you a baby.

Elation? Pride? In that moment it’s just the two of you for the first time because God knows what is going on post-birth. I didn’t have the stomach to look over my shoulder.

The doctor hands you the baby and the two of you look at each other. I remember the moment distinctly because he didn’t look anything like either of us and I had questions that I dared not ask in the delivery room.

I’ve told a few stories about Future Man over the last 16 years but this is the first one. I haven’t told the vast majority and probably never will. There just isn’t enough time.

Unless he doesn’t snap out of being a 16 year old grunter. We’ll check back next year and if things are the same I’ll tell you about the conception.

He’ll love that.

 

Jon Show lives in Robbins Park with his wife, who he calls “The Mother of Dragons.” Their 16-year-old son is “Future Man” and their 11-year-old daughter is “The Blonde Bomber.” Their dog is actually named Lightning.