A lot of you have been writing in saying, this little Paul Reiser bit is fairly good, you know, in a generic-baby-log kind of way but we can get enough of the general jokes from Paul himself and it's all quite a bit zippier in his book.

Well, that's a run-on, and as an English teacher, I don't feel obligated to answer run-ons.

But I can provide some details. What follows is my equivalent to a video of the birth. If you are squeamish or were actually there please read no further.*

J.B. came into this world in her own good time. 11 days after her "due" date ("overdue" like her father's many library books on "responsible fathering"). Oh, yes, and after 60 hours of labor. They tell me this is not a record, but I would not mention that to my wife.

So imagine three days in a hospital room about the size of a minivan, eating a diet of clear liquids (for her) and burgers for her sister and I, sleeping in a bed (for her) and two upright chairs (for us). It was kind of like a bad road-trip without the road or the beer or really any diversion but trying to learn every detail of the nurse's constant visits. You begin to become probably the worst kind of expert.

"That's no way to hang an IV," I found myself saying. "Here, let me. Novice!"

For entertainment, we also had the TV. I watched "Heartbreak Ridge" twice and have now realized why it must be central to my dissertation on 21st century literature.

This monotony was broken only by the constant visits by nurses, midwives, and doctors and the relief of visits from my wife's mom and other sister. We must of met the entire staff of that hospital, from Dr. Big-hangs to Nurse "You think you feel bad in labor? Your should feel my headache." Dear, compassionate people.

At one point, they let my wife up to take a shower (which they withheld from her sister and me) and I thought she was going to make a break for it, but they had the place surrounded.

Not that it was all terrible. J.B.'s name was almost changed to "John" after our anesthesiologist, or "little Eppy."

Another pastime was watching the contraction monitor. This became almost comical after the epidural. "Woh, now that was a big one but wait till the next one, it's a Tsunami!" It's when the little jaggedy line rocketed off the charts that we all stopped and stared in wonder and fright at the blessed womb.

Now to understand the "pushing" you must understand my wife and her family. They are of epic stock, a bold German-Irish-Dutch mix of marathon runners, military men, and medical professionals. They are case studies in Will to Power. And her sister watches Oprah religiously!

So there we are flanking her, and the doctor keeps offering easy outs.

"Maybe we could wait a bit." Or "Why don't I just turn the verflemsden on the hickly-nag and you'll have an easier time." (You can fill in those details on your own.)

But this doctor never met these sister.

"Bring it on!" shouts my wife.

"Come on, come on!" Her sister calling out "Push" like some Valkyrie coxswain. I counted to ten, counting faster when she started to turn blue. one, two-three, four...five...sixseveneightnine....ten.

"You've got to count evenly," warns the doctor. "All right I've got a plan. Let's all take a breather."

"Screw your plan, we're pushing," say the sisters.

And with that J.B. came out in a flourish, all in one pop, and you haven't seen it all till you've seen an entire body emerge out of your wife's lower extremities.

Hopefully that's enough to satisfy your appetites for now. We're going to put you down to sleep either way.

*(I should probably remind you, dear reader, that some of this is a fictionalized account by a writer named S. Sarino, who has only fleeting similarities to the editor of Bunk Magazine. But enough of it is true, so you don't have to call).

Lamaze for him

I know Lamaze is, like those products they sell in men's bathrooms at truck stops, "for her pleasure" or at least "for her distraction from unbearable pain," but I find its practices quite useful even for myself.

Particularly helpful is the "cleansing breath," which most mothers don't actually take until labor is finally over or until their child finally gets a full-time job. (Any day now, Mom.)
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