This is Exciting

Next month my family will celebrate our daughter’s thirty-fifth birthday. I never thought I would have a child that was in her thirties; of course, I also never thought I would be sixty. As exciting as it is to celebrate a landmark birthday, it is more fun to celebrate an actual birth. I am eager to do that; this week my daughter is expecting her first child, and I am ready to put my pawpaw hat on.

As the due date approaches, I have been observing with keen interest in my daughter’s prep for the big day; it is more fun and less stressful to be on the outside looking in; it is better than when you are thick in the woods as a soon-to-be parent. Some things haven’t changed; the expectant mother’s belly button pops out. I don’t know why, but every time I see my daughter, I laugh; she is so cute. My reaction contrasts with when I see others who have found a way, without being pregnant, to pop out their belly button; it isn’t a baby that led to their belly growing, but too much gravy that has caused their dilemma.

When my wife and I were preparing to have our daughter, we went through Lamaze classes. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor with five other couples as we practiced breathing. My wife became adept at her labor breathing; that is until labor began. She forgot her training; reacting roughly any time I tried to engage her in breathing techniques. I didn’t get mad; it was after all my fault.

Recently my daughter and her husband went through classes. I don’t know if they were called Lamaze or not, but the concept appeared to be the same; that is, with one exception. Given that our society is keen to know everything before it happens, the instructor must have felt it their duty to outline in vivid detail everything that would or could happen. Listening to my daughter describe what she learned, I became terrified, and then I remembered that women have been delivering babies for a while now, and most of the time it turns out lovely.

Speaking of women, I don’t think I have to say this, but I will. Women are damn amazing. They go through so much during pregnancy, mainly because of an invasion into their body by a new person who will alter the woman’s body into an uncomfortable state. If men gave birth, there would never be a concern about too large a population. Men fall apart with a cold; we couldn’t handle what happens during pregnancy.

I am often asked if I know what the sex of the baby is, and the answer is I don’t; I don’t even care. I just want to hold the healthy little baby and make sure it knows Pawpaw from the start. Interestingly, my daughter and her husband also don’t know the sex of their baby. I asked her why, and she said, “We want to be surprised; we figure it would be our last surprise.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her, but I suspect this is only the beginning of surprises. A kid is a living Rubik’s Cube; it is unlikely you will ever figure them out.

Not to limit my daughter’s classes to preparing for the delivery, she has also been seeing a therapist who specializes in strengthening pelvic floors. Now I am not sure I know what that is, and I am certain I don’t want to find out from my daughter, but it sounds cool. I am sure she will be glad her pelvic floor will be strong. I wonder what the therapist’s dad said when his daughter told him she had completed her college education and was now going to spend her life strengthening pelvic floors; it was probably a better response than finding out your child’s degree will lead to a career as an art curator.

I have been joking with my daughter about how excited I am to be in the delivery room when all this goes down. For the record, I have no interest in being in the room. In fact, I am thinking about going “old school.” I intend to find a waiting room with horribly uncomfortable chairs; when after a while my butt falls asleep, I will get my exercise in pacing the floor. I don’t smoke, but my need to channel the 1940s might allow me a puff to “calm my nerves.” Who am I kidding my doctor wouldn’t approve of that and I have a physical in a month and don’t want to be castigated for bad habits—my physical is why I am on a diet; nothing like impressing your doctor when you stand on the scales.

I am worried about my son-in-law. He is an awesome guy who likes to be in control. Boy, is he in for a rude awakening. He may never be in control again. He certainly won’t be in the delivery room; he is a sideshow to the main event, as he should be.

I learned my lesson that I was irrelevant when our second child was born. We lived in Birmingham, Alabama at the time—I know, don’t tell anyone. My wife’s labor was dragging on, leaving ample time to chat with the nurses. During that time, I disclosed we were Tennessee grads. Fast forward several hours later and it was time. The doctor came into the room, positioned himself in front of my wife like Johnny Bench ready to catch a pitch and looked up at me and said, “I understand you guys are big Bama fans and you would like me to say Roll Tide when the baby is born.”

I was incredulous and responded, “Hell no.”

The doctor was now confused. “The nurses told me this is important to you; don’t worry, I do it all the time.”

“Sir, do not do that.”

I don’t know how long we debated this topic, but at some point, my wife reminded us why we were there. I believe her quote was, “Would you two shut the hell up.”

We did, and our son was born without controversy or stain.

I like to kid my son-in-law about his alma mater. He went to Southern Cal, a fine school, no doubt. He will refer to his school as USC. Whenever he does, I always say how proud I am that he graduated from South Carolina. Maybe I should carry this joke to the delivery doctor. On second thought, probably not. It could weaken my daughter’s pelvic floor.

As I write this piece, I am anxiously waiting for a call. It could happen at any moment. I am not sure how I will act during this entire process any more than I knew what I would do when I was in the delivery room thirty-five years ago. But I know this: I am proud of my daughter. She is lovely, smart, and will be a great mom. She will figure things out like all of us have. Her child will be blessed by her as a mom and by my son-in-law as a dad. My third grandchild will bless me. Pawpaw is ready, and I am excited.