I write books. Sometimes.

Postpartum is Such Sweet Sorrow

by WillHB
Tue, Oct 25, 2016
Read time: 3 min.

My wife recently decided she was tired of being pregnant, and subsequently insisted upon giving birth. Unfortunately, as our son’s supposed “due date” came and went, she became increasingly eager to get the child out of her.

She tried all of the standard tricks: getting trapped in an elevator, having car trouble while driving alone through the woods, and getting caught in a hostage situation while at the bank, but, to her chagrin, her water failed to dramatically break shortly after meeting a scrappy young teenager or a neurotic, middle-aged man whose perspective on fatherhood would be changed after being forced to deliver the child for her.

Finally, she resorted to the most desperate ploy of all…scheduling an induction. And it worked like a charm: the day before her appointment, our son Liam came into the world.

The experience so far has been enlightening.

First of all, to people who refer to childbirth as “beautiful”: stop that. I know, I know, you want it to be beautiful, because you like sex, and you like babies, so the stuff that happens in between should be beautiful, too, right?

Well, it’s not. There’s more blood than a Tarantino movie, there’s a strong chance that the mother will crap the bed, and the whole process ends with the woman getting stitches. On her junk.

Oh, and let’s not forget the placenta. What’s that? You forgot the placenta, because they always leave that out on TV? Then allow me to remind you. Remember that time you accidentally walked in on a plate of marinara-soaked angel hair pasta having sex with a jellyfish? It’s like that. Except that for the past nine months it’s been tethered to your child by a shriveled purple tentacle that will haunt your nightmares for the next several months.

Just kidding. You won’t sleep for the next several months.

Second of all: drugs. I don’t know if you’ve ever had an epidural, but I highly recommend them. I know, they say that it can make the baby a little groggy, but as it turns out, they don’t make the baby drive home afterward. And, at least according to my wife’s doctor, mothers who say “yes” to drugs are better at following the doctor’s directions since, you know…they’re not in terrible pain.

And, finally, there’s the whole baby thing. Previously, I had thought that babies were terribly boring. Now, it turns out, it’s just that everyone else’s babies are boring. My baby, on the other hand, is awesome. When I see billboards or commercials with babies in them now, I’m like, “Nice try, other baby. You’re not nearly as awesome as Liam.”

Mind you, I can’t claim that my son is inherently interesting for anyone else. His primary activities at this point are 1) sucking my wife dry, and 2) waiting until we’ve given him a clean diaper, then shitting loudly in my arms. Incidentally, if you, the reader, happen to actually be my son looking back to see what sort of things I posted on the Internet about you when you were a child: you’re welcome.

And, on the off chance that you, the reader, are not my son ten years from now, and you’re wondering why I decided that what the Internet really needed was another obnoxious parent blogging about their stupid kid: you’re welcome.

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