Posts Tagged ‘pregnant’


This blog is the first of a two-part blog. I would have posted the blog in its entirety, but I wanted to get you to come back and read more tomorrow to boost my ego. Also, I know that the people who read my blogs don’t have four hours to read all at once. But, rest assured; I will tell the entire story of my daughter’s entrance into the world.

Opening a Red Hook India Pale Ale, I was sitting down to watch the nightly news and enjoy the evening. I have routines, and I do not like them to be interrupted; I get anxiety when I am not doing exactly what I did yesterday at the exact same time today. At my most comfortable moment, it happened—everything that I wanted to be doing became the least important thing going down in the city. We were going to the hospital, and we were going to have a freaking baby! But let me not get ahead of myself here. Let me give you the introduction you deserve.

Having a baby is the exact same thing as a 13 hour road trip to Vegas except your chance of winning any money is less likely. I would argue that you are on the losing end of the money train by introducing children into any venture, but that will most likely be the subject of future blogs. When you first hit the road to the city of lights, you and your gang are ecstatic about the impending journey. You scream out the window into the night air, “Vegas!!!!!” Everything in your life has come to a focal point and that is the trip to Sin City you are embarking upon–things could not be more perfect.

Flash forward six and one half hours and take a glimpse into the car now. The gang of committed friends that were hell bent on ensuring you didn’t drive your car off of the road, or worse accidentally take a wrong turn and end up in Show Low Arizona, in the middle of a snow storm, are all passed out in the back seat. The enthusiastic scream into the night just a few hours earlier is more of an apprehensive question, “Vegas?” And your question is overpowered by snores and fogged up windows from the sleeping duo in the back seat.

As you arrive in Vegas, the Dynamic Duo of friends that accompanied you seems revitalized and ready for the ensuing three day bender. As I said, this is exactly how labor and delivery unfold except the three day bender following the delivery of a child, while just as sleepless and physically exhausting, involves less alcohol (barring the swabs for the belly button), just as much coffee, and as far as I can tell, there is no legal prostitution going on post partum, but we still have a few days left, so this could still go either way (If I ever write a blog entitled, You Won’t Believe It, There Was Legal Prostitution, you will know to come back here and read.)

So, that is the way it started—like a road trip to Vegas, but in this instance, you never know how far Vegas is away. When the journey towards meeting my daughter started I was as excited as I have ever been, but my excitement would clash head on with the demands of sleeplessness, watching a woman deal in pain that I cannot understand, and finally the homestretch towards fatherhood. Before, I go any farther into this, I want you to know that I am going to speak frankly about childbirth, its processes, what I had to witness, and most importantly, I want you to leave this blog with a much deeper appreciation for the woman as a species. Regardless of whether the mama receives an epidural or not, pregnancy and subsequently labor–both natural and through c-section are the most harrowing experiences a human can enter into, and I have a newfound appreciation for the experience.

Leaves hanging from the trees colored our drive a blur of oranges, yellows, browns, and fading greens as we made our way down the winding, country road leading from our front door to the interstate. We were on going to the hospital, and I was about to meet my daughter for the first time. I was nervous. I had done my homework, spent the hours reading about what is going to unfold before me, talked a big game about how I was going to be in the delivery room, and of course, I understood that the process we were beginning would end in a life changing addition to our home. Things were getting real, and if the moment itself didn’t sell this to you, then you need to know that Lieutenant Colonel Britney Spears was to deliver our baby. I was out of my mind not to use Britney lyrics in every piece of dialogue with this woman. I even accidently broke out into Womanizer once when she was in the room, but I guess she was ignoring me, or get this, during labor, I was not the center of attention! I know, it was a difficult role for me to bear, but it was my burden to hold.

At 6:00 pm, 1800 military time, Whitney was in a gown and progressing into labor. Contractions are a bitch, and the bitch was visiting the Whitness often. We knew we were going for the drugs, and it was time to make the decision. It is easy before the moment to say we will get the epidural, but the actual event of getting the epidural is a different beast in itself. Enter the drama. The anesthesiologist had to come brief Whitney on the what’s-it’s and how’s-it’s of the epidural process, and we were anxious to ask the doctor questions. The door swung open and I shit you not, in walked a woman who looked like Bill O’Reilly with a mullet. Bill O’Reilly looked like the last time she slept was during Nam and she had lived through a world of shit since her harsh days in the jungle. Helping complete the “This Is The Craziest Experience Ever” trifecta, she was dressed in a Kermit the Frog green set of scrubs and nestled on top of her head rested a shamrock chef’s hat perfectly accentuating the party end of her mullet—her entire ensemble screamed that what we were getting was a professional put you to sleeper.

Bill O’Reilly is, of course, required to convey to us the risks and such of the process of being “epiduraled,” but let me make sure you understand completely, there was nothing about Mullet Bill O’Reilly that compelled me to let her stab me through my spinal cord and deaden my body from the legs down, much less my wife. In the end of the fiasco, I had to go get Britney Spears to convince Whitney to let Bill O’Reilly plug medicine into her back. Very weird.

Enter my first task of the evening. I was to hold Whitney while Bill O’Reilly plugged her with meds. I remember watching a class we attended earlier in the pregnancy. I was a statue and I was unbelievable. Sure, Whitney had a needle in her back, but I had to hold her steady. Who wants that job? It was the scariest moment of my life, and I straight up rose to the occasion. I was better than the silver spray painted statue guys that work the streets in New Orleans. I was locked so stiff and for so long, that I was sweating. I would say things like, “you’re doing so well, Whitney,” but I would do it like the Tin Man asking for oil in The Wizard of Oz. Again, I was amazing, and as such Britney Spears gave me accolades.

As the epidural epiduraled Whitney’s legs and girlie areas, the contractions began coming more and more regularly. We were not pushing yet, and I say “we” because I want some credit in this whole deal. From my count, there were four people who at any given moment were allowed to scour my wife’s birthing canal, I was not one of them. They checked for all kinds of things, and I kept waiting for them to pull out a rabbit, or a long string of multi-colored handkerchiefs that never ended. The four would scour and then discuss, scour and then discuss, and then they would all busily read printouts and type things into computers. I had the distinct feeling that Whitney was glad she neither saw, nor felt the excitement taking place three feet south of her nose.

I wrote in an earlier blog about the types of fathers that exist in a delivery room. As the process unfolded, I never had a choice—I was going to be a part of this thing from the get go, and things were getting ready to go, but not before the doctor showed up and we paused. We paused so that we can discuss important information that needed addressing before we had this kid. For a 15 minutes, I worked feverishly to teach the doctor about the Pumpkin Spice Latte that Starbucks offers. I explained to the doctor that the Pumpkin Spice Latte is a warm glass of the season of Fall. You drink it in and you are magically wisped away to a pastoral environment like in the Viagra commercials (minus two bathtubs) where the trees are changing colors, and you can feel the harvesty goodness going on all around. I pleaded to the doctor that as soon as his shift is over, he needed to go to Starbucks and get the latte. He agreed that he was missing out and made me a promise to try it immediately, or as doctors speak, STAT. After he conceded, we decided we should get back to delivering the baby.

Two Pushes and a Gag

I never attended any breathing classes. I have seen television shows that are all based around the HEE-HEE-WHO method, but we never discussed the breathing to my knowledge. However, all of the classes that I did attend had pregnant ladies and their respective breasts in them and I may have been distracted, because pregnancy is sexy and boobs are, well, boobs. In the end, Whitney breathed like a marathon runner and I was in no place to say something like, “Whitney, you’re not breathing in the proper sounds…” I will tell you this: Whitney came up with a much more productive means to pushing this baby. Her method was simple and involved two incredible pushes followed by a severely destructive dry heave. Britney Spears and her gang of scouring thugs all commented that the dry heaves were actually very productive pushing mechanisms, and so it began that Whitney patented the Two Pushes and a Gag method to birthing. I plan to start conducting a travelling school that visits all major cities and metropolitan areas in 2013 to instruct this method to expecting mothers.

My second task of the evening was to hold her right leg while she pushed. There was no curtain, no stirrups, no separation from me and the vagina. I was right in the mix and it was amazing. I am not sure where the man would stand in the room should he not have wanted to witness this, because I could have caught the baby should she have made a move. I am a man, I wanted to help her, and the only thing I could do was just be there and not say stupid stuff. This was more difficult for me than one might think.

Here’s how it went:

The nurse would say a contraction was imminent and then I would act as a force for her to push against. The problem was that I underestimated my wife’s longing to get what is on the inside of her body out. My wife is strong. I was not ready for the forcefulness with which she pushed and found myself ineffective during her first push and pretty much ruined it. “I am better than this,” I thought to myself. I am a man. I fixed a mailbox with my bare hands and a hammer only two weeks ago. I can punch a hole into dry wall (as long as there is no stud directly behind it). I am a freaking man, and I just nearly got thrown through a wall by my wife during her first official push. I messed up, and Whitney in the midst of the warzone that is labor was still a very efficient identifier of my weakness during the push. She stopped and looked at me and said, “I hope our daughter is stronger than you….” I just wanted to curl into a ball and drink a pumpkin spiced latte…alas; I would have a chance to redeem myself.

Whitney pushed for two and a half hours and she looked like she could’ve done it for five more. I was extremely proud of her, and I was also overjoyed and thankful that I was without a uterus and vagina, because I would have made it to the first dry heave and been cashed.

As I said, I will continue this in the next blog, but as a teaser, I offer you this excerpt:

Seated in a wooden chair in the corner of the recovery room, I was holding my beautiful daughter. Outside in the hallway, it sounded as if a parade was approaching and we were about to see the front end pass by our door. The first event in the parade was Dr Britney Spears, who I love for being there, behind her was a train of nurses; doctors; random men and women; midgets and orphans; and last but not least, in the most dramatic float of them all, rode Whitney Phillips spouting out drug induced nonsensical phrases. Britney Spears approached me and my mother-in-law. She leaned in and said, “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but in the post-operating processes, the following words were heard coming out of Whitney’s mouth: Dildos, Mike and Ike Candies, Hot Tamales, and dear God, Don’t Let the baby look like my husband.”…………..

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for a week and one day….

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Friday September 28, 2012 is the first day I really think I got it.  Everything came together for me in one single moment of clarity.  I was punched in the face with truth, and the truth set me free.  The undisputable morsel of knowledge was this:

I am tremendously thankful that I am a man who does not have a vagina or the ability to grow life in my uterus (if I had one).

I mean, up until this point, pregnancy kind of just turned Whitney into a man….She has been gassy, burps a lot, and doesn’t sit like a lady anymore.  Let’s get this straight, she is dead sexy and glowing, but she has her Al Bundy–Married with Children moments.  I conveyed this to her the other day, but to my dismay, somehow this comment wasn’t met with the merriment I expected.

Friday, September 28, 2012, at a routine pre-labor appointment, turned close but no cigar for delivery, I realized exactly what is going down here—literally.  There were metal tools, monitors, multiple women peering into the nether regions of my wife as she sat in motorcycle rider position on a table.  I had this distinct feeling that the nurses were setting up some form of camp in my wife’s birthing area.  Seriously, it looked like they were the advanced party for a circus that is coming to town and their job was to get the big top set up ahead of the carnies’ arrival.  The sounds confirmed my suspicions.  The clanking of metal sounded like tent posts and stakes being prepared for assembly.  Nurses clamoring about grabbing straps and chains excitedly mumbling random things to one another filled the air with the same nostalgic feelings I had before the State Fair in Albuquerque, NM as a kid (minus the potential to be stabbed or killed by gang members or propositioned by local prostitutes).  Things were getting real.  And more importantly, things were getting really invasive.

I offered my hand to Whit as she lay there victim to the carnival occurring just two feet down from her head.  Whitney looked beautiful, but nervous, and rightfully so.  I needed to say something to calm her down while the nurses resurrected the biggest show on earth, so I blurted the first thing that I thought of, “Whitney, you are doing so much better than I would if the nurses were checking my cervix.”  That was it; that was the best I had.

I mean, what does a man say to a woman in this moment that really contains any meaning?  I don’t want to be a coach who just says motivational phrases.  I want to be a valuable member of the push towards life.  I don’t want to say things for the sake of saying things.  I wanted her to hear my words and know that I understand her pain.  I thought I conveyed it.  I am certain that if the nurses were checking my cervix, it would not be met with the calm look of absolute resolution that Whitney met the moment with.

Whitney was like Xena, Warrior Princess sitting there.  I was proud of her, but I cannot say that there was a moment when I thought, “let me take this pain for her.”  I think women are somehow better suited to deal with this moment than men.  Plus, I want to reiterate that Eve ate the apple, and we men just felt compelled to follow suit, because since the dawn of creation, we have just followed our ladies around hoping for a little attention, and we thought that if we were cast out of paradise at the woman’s side, she might give us a little lovin’ later.  I cannot change history…

In the end, the trip was just the beginning of what looks to be a process that is winding down.  I keep trying to coerce Whit into labor by making her do Jumping Jacks, and through a steady diet of spicy foods, but Whitney is hell bent on an October Baby—and make no if, ands, or buts about it, Whitney is this circus’s ringleader.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


Day 20 In a Trailer:  The Natives continue to grow restless.  We have gone without a home for almost four weeks, and we are surviving—barely.  I am not sure whether Whitney doesn’t want to start a torrid love affair with the weird guy who mows the lawns for the campground.  Their relationship started innocently when he was voyeuristically looking in on The Whitness while she was getting ready for the day about a week ago.  It is the way his face looks like he was an extra in the movie, “The Hills Have Eyes” that seals the deal for the man. 

Day 22 In a Trailer:  Whitney has reached an all-time low.  I believe she has voted me off of the island.  Today, I left my shoes in the car and tried to maneuver barefoot through a gravel paved driveway to get to them.  The agony was too much for my soul to bear.  Every step was met with the excruciating pain of a thousand rocks digging into the virgin flesh of my feet.  I called out to my wife hoping she would come to my rescue.  She would be my pregnoid in shining armor.  She emerged from the trailer as happy as I have ever seen her.  “What did you do now?”  I responded in a whimper, “I need my shoes; they are in my truck just there, not too far away, can you please grab them.”  Without complaining, Whitney retrieved my shoes and started walking toward me.  Our eyes connected and I tried to convey the gratitude that I had for her in the moment.  In her eyes, she held a blank stare void of any emotion.  I stood quivering with my blistered feet desperately wanting for my shoes.  Whitney neared my position, and bent over putting my shoes on the ground—a foot beyond my reach.  She stood up and looked down on me in silence.  Turning to walk away from me, I heard her exhale a sigh of breath.  It was a breath of satisfaction.

Day 24 In a Trailer:  Whitney has tried to kill me three times.  In an argument over whether what we are doing here is camping or living, I believe I started to win.  Utilizing my vast understanding of rhetoric and logic, I had cornered Whitney.  She was left with nothing to say.  I was certain that I had convinced her that if we were really camping this would be more exciting, but since we are actually living in this trailer, it has lost its luster.  The exact phrase I used was, “If we were really camping, this would be a much more fun experience, and it would be a much better place to be at.”  Her response to me sums up why I can never really beat Whitney in anything.  She said, “Heath, I am not interested in the details as you see them, I am interested in the facts….”  She quickly followed with a sentence that nailed it for her, “And Heath, don’t end your sentences in a prepositional phrase if you want to be taken seriously in an argument…”

Day 25 In a Trailer:  We had our first work social at my boss’s house.  I learned one really solid thing about myself.  Given an opportunity to innocently say something that would sound so wrong, I will do it.  Whitney and I gathered around the buffet style food table and started filling up our plates.  Whitney does buffets differently than most people do.  She likes to knock it out in one shot.  She gets her main course and simultaneously gets her dessert.  I like to go back like seven times and just graze on things for about three hours.  Anyways, Whitney had her little plate of main course dessert combo.  I noticed people gathering around the buffet table and decided I needed to be the center of attention, now if I could only come up with something to say…..Here is the statement that will live in infamy:  “Whitney (said as loud as I can), we don’t need to get it all in one sweep, damn.”  I look to the crowd for validation with a look that said, “c’mon people agree with me…am I right, or am I right?”  The crowd scattered.  All I could hear was a collective grumble of disappointment in my statement.  I am brilliant.  The look on Whitney’s face was one that said, “later, in the car ride, on the way home, I am going to kill you.”

Day 26: Last Full Day in a Trailer:  I make it exciting.  After the argument I won/lost earlier in the week, I thought I would try to make this feel like a camping experience.  I started a fire.  We got marshmallows out and made s’mores.  It was fun.  As the fire was really getting going, I noticed it was billowing smoke.  I looked to Whitney, who had made knife hands and was attempting to waft smoke away from her by rapidly moving both hands in front of her face.  She looked at me in anger and said, “Heath, this is how you kill a baby.”  End result:  Camping is awesome!

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


I have to admit, I understand the allure.  It got me too, years ago.  She is a natural leader and hypnotist; I’ve always told her that she would make a really good mob wife, if she could just get by her insatiable appetite to not break the law.  (I wish her name was Marie, that’s a strong mafia wife name).  I was talking with some friends that I have had since forever, and I pointed out to them that I have thousands of words to write about myself and my fun adventures.  Like, when my dad tried to kill me after shoplifting and other instances where my dad tried to kill me, but nothing is as well received as essays on a rambling pregnant woman.  These are friends that should be loyal to me, but no, they have joined Team Whitney, and in doing so, turned their backs on everything I thought we were…Alas, I resign myself to the fact that I have known, but denied for years—pregnant people steal the show, and you come off as a jerk if you try to get it back from them.  The miracle of carrying life in your innards, I guess.

A natural segue here is to let you know this.  Yesterday, my blog had record readership.  I have narrowed down the reasons to be either

  1. 1.        The subject of a pregnant Whitney is indeed as alluring as I think it should be, or
  2. 2.       I used the word “panties” in the title and there were a lot of pervs initially disappointed, who were conducting internet searches for the word “panties” that happened upon a relatively clean story about a man and his pregnant wife’s crazy life.  Could you imagine the poor guy as he kept reading hoping I was going to get into some kink, only to realize I was describing a woman’s natural transition into the realm of the Granny Panty?   

So, let me continue where we left off then.

I live and die by routines.  Every second of my morning is a routine.  I wake up the same side of the bed, I meander to the bathroom, I put in eye drops, I turn on the shower, I brush my teeth while the water warms up, and I use the restroom.  I do a complete flexing routine—the one that I will do when I take the stage for my first Mr. Olympia: date TBD.  I get in the shower.  In the shower, my washing routine has been the same for years with only small breaks for Boot Camp, Officer Candidates School, and the deserts of Iraq.  If I wash a body part out of turn, I actually feel like my day started off improperly.  The point is simple, my routing is a day-to-day ritual that my wife has become accustomed to seeing unfold.  Every work day is the same as the last, and it is my own monotonous drumbeat that I love—and need for that matter.

This morning I walked out of the bathroom and began my “kiss Whitney on the cheek and tell her she is dead sexy” routine.  She rose up and said in the most serious of tones, “what are doing, and where are you going?”  Confused at her sudden accusatory tone, and more confused with the look on her face, which screamed that she could not comprehend where a grown man would be going on a week day at, say around 0700, I replied with, “To an amusement park, Whitney, and you can’t come because pregnant girls are not allowed; it’s too bad, I bet you would have enjoyed it too.”   

If it doesn’t read as hilarious to you, then you and Whitney have something else in common.  Apparently, my “amusement park” comment was not amusing.   Her next comment was equally bewildering to me.  Whitney, in desperate move to distract me from the fact that her pregnant brain had again rendered her incapacitated, said the following line, “Well, I am glad it’s Friday, at least.”   I just let it go.

I need to give her some credit, though.  The woman has lost more sleep on trips to the bathroom over the past two nights than I have seen her pee our entire marriage.  What can this woman possibly have left in her to pee?  The Whitness has been quick to inform me that she produces double the saliva when compared to an average woman.  I guess that could be at the root of all this.

I just wanted you to know my wife has an excess of saliva, because I have been holding it in for 26 weeks.