Imagine you were having a baby

I’m not a doctor for the simple reason that gross stuff makes me pass out. 

English: Modern wheelchair

Long before my wife and I had kids, we went to the hospital to visit a friend who just had her first baby. She was very excited.  Everybody said her tiny newborn girl was beautiful.  No.  I’m sorry. 

With newborns, beautiful comes later.  On this little girl’s Day-1, about the only thing that qualified as beautiful was the cool knit hat she got from the hospital. 

Our friend eagerly told us all about the delivery – and I mean all-about-it; the breaking of the water, the contraction pains, the delivery room, and the needles.  Her attention to detail was excellent.  So is my imagination.  I could feel the color leaving my face. 

I strategically strolled across the room, to look at the baby; the innocent, adorable, little newborn.  As the barrage of oh-so-excellent details continued, I began feeling light-headed.  I knelt down and pretended to look at the baby through her clear bassinet, saying something totally useless like, “Hi there.”   

The beautiful newborn turned its beautiful head and coughed out a splotch of nastiness against the bassinet wall.  The beautiful odor hit me before her grandmother hurried over to clean up the beautiful mess. 

I quickly walked over to my wife and tugged on the back of her shirt.  The birthing details were still streaming.  I tugged again.  She waved her arm behind her, as though swooshing a bug.  I tugged again.  She turned around sharply, saw my face, and realized it was time to go.  We said goodbye and walked to the elevator.  I pushed the down button and walked over to the water fountain for a cool drink. 

I heard her voice before I saw her face.  “Gonna need a wheel chair here.”

Ceiling tiles slowly came into focus and I felt myself being helped to a sitting position.  A large nurse looked me in the eyes and said, very loudly, “I see this all the time on the maternity floor.  You okay, sir?” 

My wife hurried over.  Her look said, “What are you doing?”

“Does this one belong to you?” the nurse asked her.

Absent-mindedly, my wife shook her head.  Other nurses were fluttering around us now.

“We’re gonna need to put him in a wheel chair.”

“A wheelchair?  No, I’m fine,” I said, getting up from the floor like a newborn pony.

“Sorry, hon,” she said, “hospital policy.”

Pride kept me from turning around, but as she wheeled me to the door, I knew my wife was trying her best contain a tear-worthy laughing fit.  Finally, she was able to speak.

“What are you going to do when we have kids?”

I said, “As long as you don’t tell me what happened, we’ll be fine.”


. . . And she didn’t.  For all three kids, I kept my back to the action the entire time – seated, of course.


“Hey, dad?”
Sorry.  Got to go.  More later.


About murphyjoel

Husband, father, writer, over-sized kid. View all posts by murphyjoel

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