I bet that really smarts

Or, a father's reflection on Labour, part I

We were lucky this time, as Abby's birth was as easy as could be imagined. Which is to say, Sue was lucky, as there's not much for the father to do about it other than offer a hand to be squeezed painfully. And offer lamely encouraging words as your wife attempts to emit a baby through what seems to be an impossibly small chute. Somehow, 'You can do it,' sounds hollow.

All of which is to say I'm always baffled by stories of fathers who actually feel they should be giving orders in the delivery room. Sherrise, our lovely and helpful nurse, told us she had a patient last week who was in tears and begging for an epidural, while the father essentially thought mom should really just stop the blubbering and suck it up. He thought Sherrise should have tried to talk the mother out of the epidural before OKing it. I wonder what words one would use in such circumstances.

"Listen, I know the pain is excruciating, and I know there's this procedure that would make the pain stop with only the tiniest of risks to yourself and the baby, but, well, your husband would prefer you stick to the natural method. Because he's an idiot. Good? Good. Let me wipe the tears off your face, and here's a towel to bite down on."

You want a natural birth, bub? Because it's traditional, like our ancestors used to do? I don't see too many dads these days trapping furs up the St. Lawrence or ploughing meagre fields for 14 hours a day.

It's progress, you see. Works for everybody.