Babyhood (9780062098788) (3 page)

F
ortunately for the human race, God is a very clever person. You see, by designing it so that the very act of reproduction feels, generally speaking, pretty good, it becomes inevitable that people are going to partake. People tend to like things that feel pretty good. Research shows that the activities involved in making babies are among the most popular, with all key age groups, in all major markets. Furthermore, the majority of people who've
tried
sex said they'd “like to try it
again.
”

You have to admire the forethought. Had, for example, the Almighty-and-All-Powerful instead made sex an act of sheer pain and humiliation, how many people would have gotten involved? Not everybody. If our parents had to, let's say, slap each other in the head with enormous planks of linoleum and crawl hands-and-knees through acres of muddy stink to create Life, I don't know that we'd all be here today. But by shrewdly linking procreation to an act likely to make you stupid with excitement, God has seen to it that Life does indeed go on.

(It's possible, by the way, that this is why God's name comes up so often in the middle of the act; it's a salute to the author: “Hey, whoever made this up—thanks.”)

So, sooner or later, even the most ambivalent of us get worn down by this divine cleverness. And to our pleasant surprise, this Sex for Real was really something. Without those spontaneity-killing trips to the medicine cabinet, there was suddenly a new sense of abandon, a certain devil-may-care flair that put an extra smile on everybody's face.

Sometimes you just have to say, “God bless God—He knows what He's doing.”

Thank You for Sharing

M
y bride and I consider ourselves fairly private people. Between us, we have a handful of close friends who fall into three basic categories: She has a few close friends I don't really like; I have a few close friends
she
doesn't really like; and then, thankfully, we have those special few we
both
like.

Babyhood changed that.

Now we're suddenly on intimate terms with all sorts of people, including some people that, frankly,
neither
of us particularly like.

Once you start trying to get pregnant, the things you talk about with strangers will surprise you. We found ourselves comparing notes with couples we had never met before. Graphic descriptions of body parts and internal workings are exchanged as casually as directions to the airport.

“My breasts were so engorged I had to pump every two hours, which, let me tell you—really cracked my nipples.”

These are people who were simply invited to the same barbecue as us. We met over fruit salad.

But once people hear you're “trying,” they just open up.

“Yeah, my wife and I are trying, too, but no luck yet. We tested my sperm, and Tuesday, my wife's getting her fallopian tubes Roto-Rootered, and then they're gonna look around for some of those
fibroids.
Hey, have you tasted this chicken? It's dynamite.”

I certainly understand in
theory
that if you're going through an event as universal and wondrous as childbirth, and especially if you're having difficulties, there is benefit in sharing. But the reality is, I don't feel like discussing my genitalia with
anybody.

Just
announcing
that you're trying seems awfully personal. You're basically telling anyone in earshot when, how, and why you're having sex. When did this become acceptable? You certainly didn't do it
before
you were trying to get pregnant. If you weren't specifically trying to conceive, would you stand up at the Thanksgiving table to say, “Folks, just want to let you know—we're having sex, on the average, two to three times a week, mostly in the missionary position—pass the cranberries?” No. You'd look like an idiot. But by merely having pregnancy as a goal, the lines of discretion and propriety are totally redrawn. You can, and are expected to, share everything.

And, of course, you then have to provide constant
updates.

“So how's it going
now
? Have you had any success with the sex you two are having? 'Cause I
know
you're doing it—you mentioned it at Thanksgiving. I guess what I'm asking is, how
much
are you doing it? For example, did you do it
today?
How'd your sex go
today
?”

People want to be part of this pending miracle. Unfortunately, there's a very fine line between “So, when's the good news?” and “What's taking you guys so long?” Because the subtext there is “So,
one
of you seems to have a medical problem. Am I right? Is something wrong with one or more of you medically, physically, emotionally . . . ? Huh? Huh? Is there? You can tell
me
. . .”

There does seem to be at least a modicum of diplomacy in this area. Couples who
are
having difficulties conceiving generally close ranks and present one united front, so as to protect the feelings of the one whose body is indeed being uncooperative. They stand behind the generic “We.”

“We're doing a few tests.”

“We're trying some new drugs.”

“We don't want to talk about it anymore.”

Rarely will you hear a guy say, “We
wanted
to have children, but the wife here is just
barren.
”

And even
more
rarely will they voluntarily take the heat themselves.

“The problem is—I have dead sperm. My testicles are unwieldy, and my sperm is just dead, dead, dead.”

W
hen you're trying to get pregnant, you both take a veritable crash course in biology and anatomy. Names of procedures and body parts that were once faraway places on that big map in your doctor's office become second nature.

But for men, this transformation is even more remarkable, because before this, they knew next to
nothing.
Women at least have a familiarity with the subject. Men? It's remarkable—
sad
, but still remarkable—how little they know of the actual mechanics operating within women's bodies. The whole business is referred to simply as “Down There.”

“Yeah, they did some tests down there . . . looked around, it's very fascinating what's going on down there . . .”

But once aboard that Pregnancy Train, the education accelerates, and men find themselves giddy with information they should have known in eleventh grade.

And a lot of them can't wait to use it. With very little provocation, the words “uterus,” “placenta,” and “vaginal” are popping in and out of conversations like hummingbirds. Ironically, it's not the guys you might expect, either. The kind of guys who in everyday speech talk incessantly and crudely about women's body parts are now too embarrassed to discuss the very same subjects in terms of actual anatomy. On the other hand, the kind of guy who excuses himself from a room when someone tells the joke about the hooker and the snorkel-mask is exactly the guy who is now most likely to kick off a conversation with, “My wife has what they call an
incompetent cervix
, but her clitoris was number one in the state.”

The Power of a Two-Inch Paper Stick

D
uring the period we were officially “trying,” there were a few times when we
thought
we had succeeded. After experiencing one or more telling symptoms, my wife would come in with a very peculiar look on her face and report with absolute certainty, “I'm not sure, but I think, maybe, it's not impossible, or entirely out of the question, that I may be, potentially, pregnant.”

To which the only appropriate response is, “Well . . . then . . . ‘Yippee' . . . possibly.”

To get just a tad more information, we would then take the next big step and get out the
home pregnancy kit.
What a nice feeling to know that your entire future will be decided by a two-inch paper stick.

Before this technology existed, it wasn't so easy. Hundreds of years ago, if a woman noticed her clothes were getting continually tighter and she felt frequently queasy and exhausted, she had no way of knowing for certain if she was pregnant or simply had eaten some bad boar. She had to settle for, “Well, I guess we'll know in nine moons, won't we?”

But now we simply soil a piece of litmus paper and sit quietly for a couple of minutes.

During those fateful minutes, I found myself trying to prepare for either outcome, readying every possible emotional response and lining them all up in a row, so on a moment's notice I could grab the right one. If it came out positive, I was ready with, “Oh-my-God-what-wonderful-news-this-is-so-exciting-and-wonderful.” If things went the other way, I had “Damn-it!-What-do-we-have-to-do-to-get-pregnant?” equally loaded and set to go. And over in the corner of my brain, so as not to be too conspicuous, was the third and least noble alternative, “Okay-to-tell-you-the-truth-I'm-a-little-relieved.” I was ready for anything.

After waiting the prescribed number of minutes, my wife investigated, double-checked and triple-checked, and then looked at me.

“Guess what color it is.”

“I don't know.”

“Guess.”

“What color is ‘pregnant'?”

“Blue.”

“Okay . . . I'm going to take a wild guess here . . . is it . . . ‘blue'?”

She thrust it out in front of me the way someone would fan their cards if they had an unbeatable straight flush.

“Blue.”

Sure enough, there was a distinct blueishness to it.

The stakes were just blatantly and boldly raised. It was then I realized that all the other times we thought “This is it” were just feeble little minor-league moments. Melodramatic dress rehearsals.
This
was the this that was
it.

It reminded me of when I was a kid and used to think I heard someone breaking into our house. I would grab my baseball bat and, with the stealthiest of superspy cool, stalk the halls, looking to clobber the guy. Then one time, while casing the place with my Louisville Slugger in hand, I heard a
really
loud noise which made me think there
really, really
was someone in the house. I promptly threw down the bat and tore out of the house just a hair faster than lightning. You may
think
it's real, but when something comes along even
realer
, you understand that up till then, you were just playing around.

T
hough my wife and I were both very excited, I wasn't ready to start sending out birth announcements. Part of me didn't completely trust the test, and the rest of me was just really scared.

“You know, it may not definitely be true.”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“I'm just saying these things aren't always a hundred percent accurate.”

“They're accurate.”

“Yes, but not all the time. So, I mean, you
may
be pregnant, but . . .”

“I
am
pregnant.”

“Yeah, no, I know, I'm not saying you're
not
. . .”

“The stick is
blue.
”

“Yeah, but not by a
lot.
”

She looked at me suspiciously. “Why are you doing this?”

“All I'm saying is, it's
barely
blue. It's a very
light
blue. Like ‘sky blue.' Sort of ‘bad rental tuxedo blue.' ”

“This, pal, is what they call ‘baby blue.' ”

“But I think it's supposed to be
dark
blue. Like
navy
blue.”

She took a deep breath, looked down at the paper stick, and then slowly back up at me. There was a shadow of doubt in the jury's mind.

“It's blue,” she said, with a tiny pause after the “blue” that sounded like “. . .
isn't it
?”

She made an appointment to see the doctor the very next morning.

When she came home, I was on the phone. I looked up and eagerly mouthed the word, “So?”

She motioned that she'd tell me in a minute.

I needed to know.

“What'd he say?”

She smiled. “Get off the phone.”

My stomach tightened, made a fist, and punched me in the kidneys. This could only be one thing. She wouldn't make me hang up to tell me there was
no
news.

“Are you pregnant?” I mouthed, wide-eyed in disbelief, still holding the phone to my ear.

“Hang up the phone and I will tell you.”

“I-have-to-get-off-the-phone,” I mumbled to
somebody.

SLAM.

“Okay. Tell me.”

She smiled a smile I had never seen.

“Yes.”

All the reactions I had practiced did not prepare me for the one that actually came, which was an electrifying chill from head to toe, followed by a piercing connection between us—eye to eye and heart to heart—that shouted of Newness. A wonderful and sweet Newness that lovingly but decidedly drew a very clear line in our life together. On one side was everything we had ever been through before, and on the other, this moment on.

The Morning After

T
hough I couldn't have known it at the time, this news also signified another little change in our relationship. Specifically, it was, I realize now, the moment my wife took charge of the whole thing.

The moment she walked in the door and informed me that
she
was pregnant and
we
were going to have a baby, she inaugurated the next phase of our relationship—and the one that, as of this writing, we're still in—the phase in which
she
has all the information.