Newsletter - Halloween Blood and Guts Edition

I usually don't do requests, but got an email from a buddy Tommy P the other day wanting a newsletter. Who am I to let a fan a down? But be careful what you wish for.


You know by now that Breen and I are having a baby. What you might not know is we're having a girl. Her name is Avery. She'll be here in January and I'm already preparing myself for the prison sentence I'll undoubtedly serve when guys like Tommy P. come around calling. As Breen will tell you, I'm preternaturally conditioned to protect those around me (unless it involves some kind of fire, bee sting, or climbing to a height over four feet - then you're on your own) and Avery will be no different. I'll have to shield her from a cruel harsh world where fantasy football teams don't win every week, the stoplight at the corner of South Ave and East Street is always red and guys with fake tans and blowouts are hiding around every corner in Jersey. But I digress, it's not raising my little girl that has me the most uneasy (I'll be among the world's top 10 dads for sure). Rather, it's being in the hospital room when it happens. Because I have a weak stomach and from what I understand the birthing room is a house of f#$%ing horrors.


I've been, sort of, joking for months now that I'll need to employ a stand-in when the water breaks, the bags get packed and we head off to the hospital to, effectively, pop a watermelon out the top of a Snapple bottle. I'm working now to prepare myself for the inevitability of getting sick. Thankfully Breen understands my shortcomings. After all, this is the guy who once threw up in his kitchen sink after smelling a bad fart. Who heaved all over the grass when putting his face too close to a rinsed out jar of olives. Who yacked when someone mentioned, just mentioned, that a stain on a wall in a bathroom could be feces. And these are just the times I remember off the top of my head. My stomach holds up to almost nothing and I fear the maternity ward will be no different.


It doesn't help that the wife and I have started going to birthing class. These classes are supposed to put parents at ease and get them ready for the magic of child birth. For the most part they've been informative. But a couple of times the instructor has pulled the old video sneak attack on the Dougster. Fool me once shame on you. She threw on a film of a lady going through labor with the disclaimer, "There's a brief crowning scene, but just from the side." Total lie. It was a full on crotch shot that left nothing a secret. Fool me twice, shame on me. Last week she popped on a flick about late labor. It started with a woman basically looking like she was in a prison sauna. Then, out of nowhere she's doubled over while popping a baby out. That part I actually made it through. But then the video's voice over guy says, "And then there's the placenta." (If you know about birth, you know what I'm talking about) At this point I gasped, moved my eyes quickly to the blank wall next to the screen, and went to my happy place. When the movie finally ended and I looked up, guess who was the only person in the room not crying tears of joy? Everyone else had witnessed the beauty of childbirth. I had narrowly staved off a full on puke-a-rama.


Look, it's not that I don't understand the magic of birth. I get it. It's gorgeous and miraculous and yada-yada-yada. It's just not for everyone. Hopefully Breen is able to comfort me while she's giving birth to our child and I'm sucking on ice chips, using some coping methods, getting a back massage, and using all the breathing techniques I've learned in class.