“Husbands,
love your wives just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself for
her.” Ephesians 5:25
When I talk to my
parents about how they dealt with the delivery of my brothers and me, I get very
vague descriptions of what happened. In
my family, “vague descriptions” don’t happen.
We have great stories describing trips to a yard sale, so I know
something is up with the whole child-birthing experiences of my parents.
In a nutshell, here
is what I found out.
Fact #1: My parents had three
children. This fact is verifiable
because, well, I remember having two brothers.
We would usually spend time together, playing catch in the backyard and
wrestling each other for the extra chicken leg at dinner. I don’t remember much from childhood, just a
bunch of playing and sleeping and sometimes fighting family members for
leftovers.
Fact #2: My mother had all three of her
children in a hospital. No cornfields or
living rooms for my mother, no. She was
there, in the hospital, ready to have children.
Fact #3: My father didn’t show up at every birthing experience. I don’t blame him, though. The seventies—when we were all born—were a
time of transition for childbirth.
Fathers weren’t automatically welcome in the delivery room, but toward
the end of the decade, daddies seemed to be invited in more often. Either way, my Dad was in the room for some
of my delivery. Then, my mother kicked him out of the room because he was
annoying her.
Fact #4: Nurses took care of many things in the
hospital during the recovery process back then. Mom or Dad didn’t have to do much, except
for recover from the delivery. (In Dad’s
case, he didn’t even have to do that!)
Considering past
years, I really could have been a Dad from back then. Having almost no responsibility for our
child, while also enjoying Jonah’s life, would have been a nice, relaxing way
to begin parenthood.
I wish someone were
there to offer guidance. Someone who has had success in all this. No such luck.
First, doctors and
nurses came in and out of our room like it was a shortcut between the ER and
the cafeteria. We had everybody from the
cleaning lady to the candy stripers coming in there, taking care of
Sunday. I just wish they didn’t have to
do any “caring” at 3am, though.
Also, our hospital
required us to decide whether we wanted Jonah in the room or not. In the old days, the baby was brought in, but
not too often. My parents didn’t have
too much control over whether “the old poop factory” was going to keep quarters
with his parents. They happily looked
through the glass of the nursery, wanting to touch the baby. They were happy because they couldn’t smell
through the glass.
For us, the
decision-making effort caused undue stress.
After all, who wants to say, “We don’t want our day-old child in the
room with us. He’s really getting
annoying.” On top of that, we really
didn’t know what we were doing.
Really. It wore us out, trying to
act like we had confidence in the steps we were making as parents.
Unlike my father, I
had my duties as new Dad, both while we were in the hospital and later when we
left. None of them—and I mean none of
them—were expected. NONE! I had no one tell me about any of these
duties. I am bitter about that,
too. I heard horror stories, but I
really didn’t get the lowdown on what my duties may have been. The fathers I knew relayed their stories in
the “dating experience told in the locker room” genre of storytelling, which
requires much laughter, much detail, and not much accuracy. I don’t mind doing
tough, exhausting or gross stuff, but I like to be forewarned.
The next few posts will provide expected duties for all fathers in the 21st century. Tell your friends....
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