Sarah's home, the baby is home, we're all home. That makes it hard to judge how difficult this will really be. Because soon I'll be at work and Sarah will be here with an infant, a toddler and the world's neediest dog. I've been handling much of the Q duty. We've gone to the store and learned how to say "we're rolling" while cruising the new Target in their high tech, super smooth grocery carts. We also dug around in the dirt and pulled some weeds while Sarah was drinking up time with the baby, the only guy left in the house who will cuddle.
Soon she'll be holding one child and chasing down another. This is the beginning of the crazy. It's also when moms learn how to make PB & Js with their feet.
Eventually Q will go to "school" for part of the week, so Sarah will have time alone with the New Guy to indoctrinate him into a world of hugs and Julia Roberts' movies.
But the house is nothing short of a love fest right now. Our conversation is full of superlatives; everybody is 'the best' big brother or the 'most wonderful' dog ever. We're learning how to have multiple 'bests' and that number one is many.
The New Guy is good. Well, that's my take, but I'm the one who slept most of the night. Sarah was up with him a lot yet she still seems to like him. I have no idea how she maintains...could be she's the best ever.
I'm tired. But compared to what Sarah has done my talking about fatigue is like complaining to a Somalian about hunger.
I'm telling you you'll not love a woman more than when you hold her hand and do what little, tiny bit you can do--which includes counting to ten and trying not to faint--to help her give birth. My advice is to concentrate on the northern hemisphere. Doctors make the big bucks for a reason.
Last night I did my best to be more of a help than a hindrance. First I did the honored male tradition of timing contractions. I also got to run the back massager. We literally cooked, with electrical burning smell and all, a back massaging device with Quin's birth in 2007, so this year Quin and I bought Sarah a mother's day gift of the most durable vibrating device on the market. Our neighbor’s lights dimmed as, somewhat frightened, I followed Sarah's commands to plow "harder!" into her lower back. From bedroom to living room to hospital room I followed her, plugging in wherever possible to alleviate her pain.
Like with Quin's birth, I did my best to avoid pointless conversation. But the problem is that you'll never find yourself more awkward than when you're pert near useless. It is these moments when I can least not say anything. Quin's autumnal arrival gave me football to talk about, but guys let me help you with this advice, the latest college rankings isn't something your wife wants to hear about when she's pushing a human through her vagina.
Last night I was helping big time with ContractionMaster.com. It calculates the length and time between contractions. (It does not, however, gauge the fear of a man seeing his wife grab his arm and shout in her Satan voice, NOW! every three minutes or so.) The problem is whenever I'm online I'm easily distracted, and when Sarah was crushing the feathers out of a couch cushion, I couldn't help but open CNN.com and read a headline about the Catcher in the Rye author suing for copyright infringement.
Here’s a gem of conversation:
Me: "I thought JD Salinger was dead?"
Sarah: "NOW!"
I know, idiot move. But Sarah, being a mom and therefore selfless to a fault, excused my idiocy (unless it's building up in some bank somewhere) and while whatever dark female thing was flexing the baby towards the outdoors, managed to say, "We gotta go in tonight and I'm so sorry because you're going to have to sleep in that uncomfortable chair thing again."
The hospital delivery room chair was definitely designed by a woman, one who was tired of her husband not being uncomfortable enough. The chair looks like something out of sixties Star Trek and is supposed to recline into a bed. At least you want to believe it’s a bed. But it points downward and is covered with slick vinyl. Over and over you are gradually deposited on the floor, your butt cramped from trying to grab on your way down.
I know, I’m telling an Iraqi I’m tired of the Colorado heat.
You'd think your wife being pregnant for most of a year would prepare you for a baby. It doesn't, or at least in my case, it didn't. I found myself holding the new kid and reminding my hands to hang on as firmly as one should hold a fresh child. I was floating. I was somewhere between the hospital and 2007, and not quite sure if this was our second child or maybe it was Quin, and I'd only dreamt the first two years of his life.
I actually had been dreaming and almost missed the delivery altogether. I was taking the best ten-minute nap of my life when the nurse came in and announced it was time to push. I had no idea what was going on. I was tired and chilled and felt a cold coming. Sarah watched me, hoping at some point I'd turn into a man. The first birth I'd had adrenaline on my side. Now I was emotionally naked. I felt small, rumpled and raw. I needed a boost so asked if I could get some coffee. They said there was some fresh-brewed joe in the break room. Well, there was coffee but it was cold and had that old coffee oil slick-looking thing on top. I poured some in a styrofoam cup but the microwave melted the cup. Then I found a dirty mug in on a patient's tray. While I was washing it a nurse burst in and said, "They're looking for you to help deliver!" I panicked. I ran to the nursing station and asked them something like, "Wife baby now?" They didn't know so I picked a room and ran in. It was the wrong room. And I may have sped up that woman's delivery.
Finally, Sarah's nurse found me and within ten minutes we had a kid.
Sarah was amazing; of course her performance was never in doubt. It's mine that's drawn skepticism. But I have to say that I did better than when Quin was born, and the doctor asked me to announce the baby's sex. I saw the penis. It registered. But my proclamation to my anxious wife and awaiting medical staff was, "I'm going to pass out."
That little guy is in bed right now, and Sarah is conked while the hospital staff watches over the sleeping, new kid. It is weird, though, three years ago Sarah and I had nothing but ourselves and a kitchen the size of a port-a-potty. Now we have a dog, a cat, two kids and a mortgage that almost makes me miss those days when you could open the oven from the dining room.
Sunday, June 7, 2009 at 01:33PM 
