Watch Your Junk and Other Advice for Expectant Fathers

by Benjamin Wallace

  Things may seem urgent but there will be plenty of time to get there and get her checked in. So keep your eyes on the road and try to ignore all the names that she’s calling you.

  Once you get to the hospital, no one will be panicking. They’ll check her in, hook her up to a ton of machines and start the long process of waiting.

  SOME THINGS HOSPITALS DON’T LIKE YOU TO DO

  There’s going to be some downtime both before and after the kid gets there. Here are some things you cannot do to entertain yourself:

  Wheelchair races

  Standing at the nursery window and asking doting new dads why their babies don’t look like them

  Squirt gun fights with IV bags

  Calling dibs on personal effects in the ICU

  Gurney races

  Disconnecting anything

  Recreating scenes from Pigs in Space because you couldn’t remember the hospital sketches they did

  Gender-guessing new arrivals

  Playing a quick game of “Who’s Terminal” in the cancer wing

  Teasing male nurses

  Wearing a bedpan as a hat and delivering the Gettysburg address in the waiting room

  Making jokes

  Needle darts

  Playing “What’s the blood pressure of everything?”

  Giving new babies nicknames in front of their families

  Bassinet races. Any kind of races really. Nothing is supposed to happen fast in a hospital

  Having any fun at all

  You can, however, visit the gift shop. Yay.

  DELIVERY - NATURAL

  You are no doubt aware that kids come into this world in one of two ways: the good old-fashioned vaginal way and C-sections.

  First I’d like to talk about the traditional, non-cutty way. If your wife is delivering vaginally, then DO NOT LOOK AT THE VAGINA! I told you before that there is no crisp and sterile sheet to separate you from the carnage that is childbirth. So, you, like me, pictured yourself way up at the top of the bed holding your wife’s hand, stroking her hair and whispering reassuring words that you have no business whispering. That’s because you’re dumb, like me.

  They had me right in there!

  “Here, hook her knee in your arm and help hold her leg back,” the doctor says.

  I’m stupid so I listen. You know why she wanted me to hold it? Because it was friggin’ kicking like you wouldn’t believe. My wife had an epidural so she couldn’t feel her legs, but the magic of the drugs also gave her the equivalent strength of a cybernetic kangaroo. She would kick and I would go flying towards the end of the table. There you come face to face with all the things you never wanted to know the vagina was capable of.

  So you look at the doctor to apologize for not holding the leg back and yell at her for not warning you about your wife’s augmented strength. That’s when you notice that the doctor is wearing a face mask. We’re not talking a catcher’s mask here. We’re talking a clear blast shield that covers her features from the tip of her head to well below her chin. Why is she wearing this face shield? Because, holy high velocity jet-stream of shit, blood and goo, that’s why.

  You spent your whole life trying to get a peek up a skirt and now you’re nose to baby’s emerging nose with how it can turn on you. They say that the birth of a child is a wonderful and beautiful thing, and they are full of shit. It is a wonderful thing but there is nothing beautiful about it. It’s icky, nasty and makes you wince at your favorite thing in the whole wide world.

  I’m not going to lie. There are going to be some trust issues in your future if you see all this. Not with your wife. Not with the doctor. Not with your child. But after seeing what’s it capable of, you will approach the vagina with caution. Spare yourself this mistrust and do not look. Maintain eye contact with your wife at all times.

  Also, do not let your wife hold your left hand. Give her your right to squeeze or she will use her super baby scream strength to break your fingers while using your wedding ring for leverage. I was lucky. The metal gave before my bones. I had to have the ring reshaped after the delivery.

  You’re going to get yelled at a lot during the delivery. Just be prepared for that. Your wife may yell at you for getting her pregnant or for doing what the doctor is telling you to do.

  The doctor will yell at you for not holding back the leg/keeping your face out of all the vagina and for not knowing anything about delivering babies. I know, I know, I thought it was the doctor’s job to know all that, too. They spent their post-graduate years studying and practicing it and you spent an afternoon in a classroom squirting “milk” (really water) onto the back of your hand and then trying to determine if it was warm or not. So, I can see how they would assume you’ve got the knowledge and skills to perform surgery.

  If you’re standing where the doctor told you to, the nurses will yell at you for being in the way. With all of this insanity going on it’s really no surprise babies come out screaming. It’s probably something you did.

  There is good news though. You may not notice during all the yelling but you exist again. It’s been a while, but all of sudden you are a person with thoughts and opinions. And you should be, you and the doctor are the first people on earth to see your child, and since the doctor’s face shield is covered with a mixture of fecal matter and amniotic fluid, you are really the only one with a clear view of your baby.

  The doctor will look right at you. Then they’ll ask if you want to cut the cord. So, here’s the doctor, who ignored you for months, asking you to be a doctor again. That’s quite a step up from not existing. It still surprises me. I didn’t go to school for doctoring, but all of a sudden they want me to wield blades dangerously close to my kid. But I wasn’t having any of it. What if I screw up and the kid ends up with an outie? I’d have to live with that shame. That’s a lot of pressure for someone with an arts degree. Cut the cord if you want to, but I figured it’s the least they could do for what I’m paying in fees.

  After the cord is cut, if all is well, they’ll hand you the kid all screaming and covered in everything that didn’t end up in the doc’s face.

  There will be tears of joy, proclamations of love, if it’s a girl, you’ll promise to get her a pony and then they’ll take the kid to wash up the mess. You’ll kiss your wife and the doctor will tell you to go tell everyone in the waiting room the great news.

  This is kind of a trick and kind of not. They really do want you to share the news but they also want you out of the room for the afterbirth. What’s that? Yeah, they never really covered it in baby class. The afterbirth is the placenta. If you want to think of it romantically think of it as the vehicle of life that brought your child into the world. If you happen to see, you’ll know it is more like a beached jellyfish mixed with nightmare fuel that special effects artists use for inspiration to build creatures that make moviegoers throw up. DO NOT LOOK AT THE AFTERBIRTH!

  Focus on the baby. It’s much cuter now that they’ve wiped the goo off.

  DELIVERY - C-SECTION

  If you’ve planned, or end up having, a C-section, things work a lot differently.

  First of all, there’s a sheet! A glorious sheet lifted high and wide so you don’t have to see what’s going on. They put it there so you don’t see them gut your wife, as if that is any more traumatizing than the eruption of the birth canal.

  During the C-section, it is much closer to what we’ve been taught by television. You sit with your wife, staring lovingly into her eyes as your child is delivered. You hold her hand. You stroke her hair. You whisper loving and encouraging words to her as they cut her open.

  All the magic happens behind the sheet and then they present your child to you without you having to see a thing.

  That is unless the sheet falls down. Based on personal experience, this only happens 100% of the time. Modern medicine has invested billions, perhaps trillions, into developing new medicines, techniques and equipment that perform everything short of miracles. Surgeons can now perform
procedures from the other side of the planet using remote controlled instruments. But clamps … they haven’t quite got those figured out yet.

  Should the sheet fall, you will see everything. Where they cut her. Blood everywhere. What you think is blood but is really an antiseptic called Betadine, but you don’t know that until later so you think it’s blood therefore it might as well be blood. You’ll also finally be able to identify the smell in the room as burning flesh.

  Then you’ll see the doctor reach right into your wife’s womb like some graphic magician and pull out your child in a pool of blood.

  It can look pretty nasty but, all in all, it’s not as gross as the whole vagina thing.

  With twins the doctor will most likely suggest or insist on a C-section. The process is no different or less disgusting. The doctor will just pull out two kids instead of one. Separately. One at a time—not one in each hand like some kind of Globetrotter palming basketballs.

  Seeing your first child will still be the biggest moment of your life but there is only about a minute to admire him or her before you have to split your attention to the other one. From this moment on your life will be a constant struggle to not favor one over the other.

  But something else has happened here. You’ve not only been blessed with two wonderful children, you’ve been awarded the ultimate one-up. From here on out, unless they have triplets, you don’t have to listen to anyone bitch about their kids ever again.

  You’ve been given license to end all complaints with one simple phrase. And you’ll need it because most of your friends are probably having kids about this time as well. Whenever they start to complain about anything baby related, just look them in the eye and say, “I’m sorry. Is your ONE baby causing you problems?” Instant silence.

  This will work forever. Toddler, pre-schooler, kindergartner, teenager—never again will you have to listen to anyone gripe about the difficulties of raising a child.

  Warning: Don’t do this if they are talking about health issues. Then you’re just being an insensitive dick, you dick.

  THEY’RE WATCHING YOU

  Congratulations, you are now a father—something that you know nothing about. Sure you went to baby class that afternoon and you read a few books, but everything you’ve learned will suddenly leave your head and a little panic may set in. Can you even remember how to hold a baby? What do you do if it cries? Is the name you picked really fitting? What if you do something wrong and somebody sees? Will they take the baby back? What the hell are you even doing there? Is it getting hotter? Was the room always this small? If you had to make a run for it, would you fit down the laundry chute? Where does the laundry chute go? Would everything be covered in old person pee? Could you hold your breath long enough?

  Don’t worry. All of these thoughts are perfectly normal, probably. You just had a kid. Everything just changed. No one expects you to know everything. I mean, don’t drop the kid, but people are there to help you through it all. It’s not like they’re watching your every move. It’s your kid. They trust you. Okay?

  So, your kid will come back to the room with an RFID tag that looks like it belongs on a pair of jeans. This is just so they can track the baby’s every move and ensure its safety from everyone that dare come near it. You know? Just to ensure no irresponsible person that knows nothing about babies ever picks it up.

  Well before the baby’s birth, you’ll take a hospital tour. On that tour they will emphasize security in the maternity ward. They are usually more proud of this than they are their ability to bring life into the world. This security will include a system that tracks the babies so they can’t leave the building without the proper parents. It’s kind of like a coat check for infants.

  When they bring the baby back to you, the device is installed. That’s what the ankle bracelet is for. So, don’t worry, your baby didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just a version of Baby Lojack.

  I know what you’re thinking here. Lojack would make an awesome name for a boy. Well, I’ve got dibs so you can forget about it.

  MILESTONES: YOUR BABY’S FIRST CRAP

  From here on out everything is about milestones in your child’s development. And the very first milestone your little one will achieve is his or her first crap.

  How big a deal could this possibly be? This crap even has its own name—they call it meconium.

  It may seem strange to give a unique name to one particular turd but it will all make sense when you finally see this thing. This is no ordinary crap. It’s black. It’s not brown or green; it’s black like tar. A black so deep that it drains the surrounding room of all light, drawing it in and swallowing it whole. Black like a soulless creature of forgotten lore from which, I can only assume, it draws its name. Meconium.

  Meconium is not, by nature, evil. It is just a crap. But its emergence signifies something much worse. You see, it works like a plug and it was holding back all future craps. Little craps, monster squats— every turd your child will ever produce is unleashed into this world when the meconium first makes itself known.

  But a lifetime of fecal production is not the worst thing that meconium produces. There is something much, much worse. That is meconium humor.

  Clever minds in the button industry have made the realization that meconium means shit. And since it does, you can replace the word shit with meconium and a phrase would go from being crass to clever. And thus the phrase “Meconium Happens” was unleashed like a walled-up lifetime of crap into this world.

  “Meconium Happens” appears on buttons, stickers, desk plaques, coffee mugs, T-shirts and every trinket possible. Everywhere you turn in the hospital nursery, you’re going to run into “meconium happens.” Even the nurses will put on their best tour guide smile and tell you that meconium happens.

  I’m not sure how things work in the button industry, but it appears that once you’ve written some gold like “meconium happens” you can rest on your laurels and count your money because no other shit/meconium lines were ever explored despite a wealth of applications:

  A “cut the meconium, we’re having a baby here” sign in place of the “quiet please” placards.

  “Do I look like I give a meconium” onesies for angry looking newborns.

  “No meconium, Sherlock” detective kits/pipes for babies.

  “King meconium” brand diapers.

  “Holy meconium! You’re having a baby” balloons in the gift shop.

  Honestly, I think it was all created by one lazy sack of meconium that didn’t realize a terrible pun’s full potential.

  The best thing about your baby’s first poop is that, unlike a lock of hair or their birth certificate, you are not expected to hold onto it, bronze or keep it on file. Just let the nurse take care of it.

  GOING HOME

  Remember that time in college when you got hammered and chose to drive home anyway? And then that cop got behind you in traffic for the entire ride? Of course not, it never happened, wink, but that is how good a driver you will be when you’re taking your child home for the first time. Except not drunk.

  You will see stop signs you never knew existed. You’ll find your blinker (hint: on the left of the wheel). You may even find yourself using hand turn signals just to make sure everyone knows what you’re doing. You’ll obey every speed limit and still feel like you’re speeding. You’ll check every mirror a thousand times and never be certain of what was in it.

  The only thing you’ll see in the mirror is your baby in its car seat.

  Being a father still won’t seem real at this point. The fact that they actually let you leave the hospital with the child still confounds you. What kind of irresponsible institution would do that?

  Even once you get home, the bafflement will continue. You’ll walk in with the child in your arms, delivering him or her to their new home for the first time. You may even give the baby a tour of the house. After that, you won’t have a clue what to do.

  Do you put it in the swing? Seems a little s
oon. The pack and play? Already? You can’t just hold it forever. There’s stuff in the car that needs to be brought in. There is only one solution here. It will come to you quickly and it’s a very crucial lesson: when you don’t know what to do with a baby, give it to Mommy.

  Congratulations, you are now a real father.

  LET’S TALK ABOUT SHIT

  With a certain amount of trickery, deception and disappearing, you can get out of changing most of your child’s diapers while you’re at the hospital. But you’re not there any more. There’s no fully staffed nursery to tend to your child’s “movements” and “little messes.”

  Now that you are home with the baby, your life will revolve around poop. Color, consistency, frequency, odor—your life is now all about ass management. I’ll tell you right now that the best day of a father’s life is not when the child speaks your name, or walks, or gets accepted to Harvard, it’s when that child wipes his or her own ass. But, that’s a ways off so let’s get back to managing your child’s ass.

  Poop is apparently very important. You’re supposed to watch it closely for all sorts of things. Color matters for some reason and you will be amazed at the array of colors your child can produce. Really it’s like they shit through a prism. An artist’s canvas has nothing on the inside of an infant’s diaper; its pallet is richer and contains much more meaning.

  If your baby poops too much, that’s a problem. If it doesn’t poop enough, that’s a problem. If its poop is too dry, it’s a problem. Slimy, problem. Green, problem. It may not really seem like a big deal, you’re just taking a quick glance into a diaper and verifying that everything is okay. Then you start to realize that it’s a conversation topic. A topic well beyond, “Did you see that monster turd?”