Fatherhood with a Twist (and a Wink)

This hub is just what the world needed - the jaded view on pregnancy, childbirth, and fatherhood, opined and observed by a woman, for anyone with the male equipment to reproduce. Or for anyone who's just a tad curious. Wish me luck.

My friend John, an established middle-school teacher and vice principal at a Catholic school, sounds distraught these days. This man put himself through college by working odd construction jobs, graduated cum laude from UC Berkeley, and is one of the most versatile, intelligent people I have encountered. He is now in his early 40s, and his wife has just informed him he will be a father in the foreseeable future. Unbeknownst to the world, John is questioning his abilities to cope with pregnancy and childbirth, to provide adequate finances, to successfully parent. He's sprouting worry warts. This got me thinking: Why should we ask what good a man can do as a father, when instead we can focus on what fatherhood will do for a guy?

Pregnancy and impending parenthood will affect spousal arrangements, no doubt about it. For starters, odors become a focal point of your relationship. If the smell of meat makes her turn green and dash for the bathroom, you can be assured that you won't be cooking any steaks for yourself in the coming months, or you will have to deal with the wrath of a nauseated, bloated, pissed off mother-to-be. So don't. And be thankful that you both are on a healthy, low-acid diet now, interrupted occasionally by strange cravings for mashed potatoes and gravy at 2 am, peanut butter on raisin rolls at 4 am, and orange sherbet at 6 am. Just go with the flow and embrace those changes. Parenthood is about to yank you out of your rut anyway. Speaking of rut - sex will never be the same after you've worked your way through the first trimester with a morning-sickness-ridden woman who can't stand your body odors anymore; who then turns into a sex-maniac during the second trimester whose boobs are about to reach the size of beach balls; and who, during the third trimester, spends most of her day in the bathroom, emptying a bladder that has shrunk to the size of a raisin. If you want sex at that stage, you'd better make it quick. No problem, right?! Pregnancy teaches you flexibility.

Childbirth will change you. And your wife. And your relationship. Once you've witnessed her making noises you never thought a human being could produce, and then holler for drugs despite having insisted on an all-natural labor until the day of (and don't you dare be the one to deny them, you won't live another day!), you still won't be prepared to actually witness her labor. Guys, it's called labor for a reason. It's work, hard work, and women are pretty darn good at it. So, stop shoving things in her face, under her body, behind her pregnancy-sized butt, all those things that the well-meaning hippie during childbirth class told you would be helpful, and instead tune in to your wife. Can she breathe? Okay then. Can she still break your wrist with her contraction-driven grip? Excellent, keep it up. Can she still make eye contact with you? No? Then it's time for more of those aforementioned drugs. You will emerge from this a better communicator.

Next, your concept of beauty will be transformed. Newborns, by nature, aren't all that pretty. Most are reddish, wrinkly, with oversized heads and chests, skinny arms and legs, and cries that can range from the sound of a meek kitten to that of an air raid siren. And when they come out, they are covered in goop. Still, this ugly miracle begets other miracles: You will think this tiny, screaming puppet is the most beautiful creation you have ever seen, and the only other person to feel the same way will be your wife. Ahh, the ties that bind.

Which brings me to the implications of the umbilical cord for the male ego. In this society, it has become a tradition to let dad cut the cord. I've never quite understood the significance of it (once I had flung my kids out into the real world and heard their first, ticked off screams, I was flying so high I could have cared less about who was wielding the scissors). It is a fact, though: Every new dad will raise himself a couple inches off the ground and puff out his chest when announcing that he, himself, cut the cord. That has always reminded me off Seuss' Grinch who, strong, loving (green-in-the-face) man that he was, he .... himself ..... he carved ... the roast beast. Maybe it's about making an official statement to declare fatherhood: 'I am cutting the cord, therefore, now I am dad.' Or it's about proving that he didn't faint in the delivery room: 'See, that's me, standing there, fighting nausea and the green tint of my face, wildly waving scissors, about to cut the roast ... no, wait, the cord.' Whichever the reason or incentive here, now it's official. Welcome to parenthood. Know that in about twelve months, when the fruit of your loins starts toddling off and dumping your favorite watch into the toilet, you will wonder why you ever chopped that cord. Supervision would have been so much easier if the little angel had stayed attached to the mothership.

Now, the real fun begins for you. Remember sleep? Not really? That's because one of the side effects of extreme sleep deprivation is memory loss. There is a very practical reason for this phenomenon. Let's just skip over all the unpleasant experiences a newborn will present you with because, em, ahhh, I don't really remember. You see, that's how it works. The negative memories are dissolved so that you will give into the call of the wild (or your wife's beckon) in due time and make another one of those critters. That's life. And great fun, if you play your proverbial card right. Don't worry - you won't even notice that half of your memories are missing.

Consider this: Being a parent turns you into a vessel. These little things can spit up, pee, and poop, all at the same time. It's truly astounding. And no matter how many cloth diapers you sling over your shoulder when you burp them, if they are the achievers my kids were (and are), they will not only splash your back with spit up, but also the wall at the other side of the room and the astonished dog that's sitting behind you. Your shirts will never be clean again, but you are too tired to notice. Doesn't matter, really - what does matter is that your little one just pooped her diaper at 4 am, and you are so stoked, proud, and (yes!) tired) that you bend over that little stinker, singing something like: "My munchkin made a poopie, a poopie, a poopie, yay yaa yay." Depending on your musical inclinations and current place in life, you might sing this to the melody of The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round, or Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit, or Britney's Baby One More Time. The good news: Your sleep deprivation is so profound by now that you won't remember this ever happened. The bad news: Right around the time you are hitting the high notes with your musical performance, your male child, this hard-earned product of your loins, will decide to pee right into your mouth. And with any luck, your spouse will have had a chance to catch some shut-eye and bear witness to this life-altering moment. Or better yet: She'll catch it on camera so that she and the in-laws can have a good laugh when that kid is finally out of the woods. The rest of it is really just fun and games:

Spoons and self-feeding are highly overrated. Keep the kid on the bottle (or the boob) - it will greatly, greatly reduce the number of times you have to re-paint your walls and clean your carpets. It will also prevent your opportunistic dog from becoming incredibly obese.

Finances should only be a concern if the hard-coin version has become lodged in one of your child's physical cavities. The new parent freaks out and attempts to call 911 but accidentally reaches the Poison Control Center, which, since your budding scientist has begun to crawl, you've had to have on speed dial. The experienced parent either attempts retrieval of the coin with an assorted toolbox, specifically designed for the needs of a hands-on parent (it may, or may not, include, the scissors used to cut the cord when that little monster was still cute and innocent); or, depending on the orifice in question, the parent patiently waits for the coin to reappear. All other monetary matters are inconsequential to parenthood, as the quality of a parent can't be measured on income or the number of brand-name toys in the house. Then again, you are too tired to remember how much you make or which toys actually belong to your kid and which to his playdates, so, really, who cares?

Once that child starts walking and following simple directions, you will never, ever have to get off the couch again to pick up the remote you've left by the TV. Just bark that command (the dog will be too fat by then to fetch it, but a well-trained child will help you out).

Discipline? Good luck with that. No matter how many positive parenting books you and your wife read; no matter how much well-meaning advice you receive from other grounded, loving, modern parents; and no matter how often you remind yourself that children want and need positive discipline, the day will come when you stare that kid down and solemnly state: "You will listen because I TOLD YOU SO." It will take you several years to get over the guilt of that experience, but at least you have someone to jump and bring you the remote when you need to drown out the psycho terror with mindless entertainment.

A word or two about language. Most folks can't wait for their little ones to utter those cute little monosyllables, accompanied by gallons of baby saliva. That's perfectly understandable, as is writing down the offspring's utterances for lifelong documentation of the genius' development. This parental stage generally comes to a screeching halt when the apple of your eye picks up some - how shall I delicately put it? - inappropriate language. Even if you, as parents, by sheer societal force, suppress your natural need to expel those four-letter words not just in your head but also out loudly, your child will eventually hear such terminology from someone else and wholeheartedly embrace it. There's one way to address this issue, I have found: Teach your children, from a very young age, swear words in a different language. Bystanders will still consider the little ****head to be the genius you want him to be while he has a chance to apply his new vocabulary and prepare for an increasingly globalized world. You get to snicker along with him (it's that parent-child bond, there is nothing like it) and proudly announce to those bystanders that you, yourself, cut the cord when that little Einstein plopped into the world.

Plopping ... I ought to touch on potty-training, the nightmare of every committed parent. Just accept it now, and you will sleep so much better: You have no control over your child's body functions. In fact, just be happy you still have control over your own and leave it at that. In most cases (let's just assume your kid is one of those most cases), high schoolers attend classes without wearing diapers. If all of those pubescent morons managed to learn to use the potty in due time, so can your brilliant little piglet.

To sum this all up: Parenthood will change you. If you embrace it, your sense of humor will soar to new heights that can, and will be, only appreciated by fellow sleep-deprived, pissed on, TV-loving, coin-removing, foreign-language cursing parents. You really don't want to miss it. And in case you ever need a good (embarrassed) laugh, your wife will be sure to bring out that footage of your proud night diaper change, bonding with your child as you reach for the high notes of the full-diaper song, and then drowning due to baby pee in your throat. The family, of course, thinks this home video is hilarious. Especially because you were butt-naked when this happened and in a state of utter, ignorant bliss.

You're the man - you can do it. So can my friend John.