THE NEW ADDITION

Parker Whitfield Gibbons came into the world at 4:08 pm on Monday. He tipped the scales at eight pounds, 12 ounces. What follows is an account of what brought him here. Well, actually just the day-and-a-half prior to his birth. Otherwise the column would be kind of long.

Sunday

6:00 pm – We checked into the hospital for induction. My wife’s doctor decided to induce because they were pretty certain that the baby was, in medical terms, a porker.

7:15 p.m. – I inflict the first scream-out-loud pain for my wife when I try and help her up and accidentally grasp her IV. That is not recommended.

11:00 pm – We take a walk. I made mention to my wife that, “Actually, I’m taking a walk. You’re taking a waddle.” Not a smart move.

11:15 p.m. – Bedtime. Being the kind husband I am, I let my wife sleep in the bed. I took the recliner. I know, I know. Husband of the year.

Monday

6 a.m. I am awoken to the sounds of a nurse checking my wife’s vital signs. I overrule my first instinct, and do not say, “Hey – quiet down! I’m sleeping here!!!!”

7:00 a.m. – We meet our nurse. Well, not actually “meet” our nurse, since we already knew her and, in fact, attended her wedding two weeks prior. But we see her for the first time that day.

7:30 a.m. – The doctor comes and checks out my wife. She verifies that she, in fact, extra pregnant.

8:00 a.m. – It occurs to me that I am very hungry. It also occurs to me that my wife has not eaten since lunch the day before. I tell her I am going to go for a walk. You know – stretch my legs. I stretch my legs with two eggs, some bacon and a couple of biscuits.

9:00 a.m. – My wife is given a giant bouncy ball to sit on to help progress labor.

9:10 a.m. – The nurse politely asks me to get off of the ball and let my wife use it.

1:50 p.m. – Mr. Pain comes to visit.

2:00 p.m. – Mr. Epidural comes to visit. Mr. Pain leaves.

3:30 p.m. – The doctor tells us my wife is not progressing. She says it will be best if she has a C-section.

3:50 p.m. – I am given what looks like a HAZMAT suit. My first thought is that they are short on surgical staff, and I am going to have to assist. Turns out that is merely required dress for spectators.

4:02 p.m. – We enter the operating room. It is nothing like the board game. I am seated at my wife’s head, with a big cloth in front of us.

4:03 p.m. – I stand up and peek over the cloth.

4:04 p.m. – I come to the realization that beauty is, in fact, only skin deep.

4:05 p.m. – My wife decides she has had enough and announces to everyone that she is leaving. Seriously. The anesthesiologist adds something to her IV. She is now in a happy place.

4:08 p.m. – A little boy is passed over to the awaiting pediatrician. He is the color of a bruise. The pediatrician assures me that this is fine. Sure, I think, if he’s a grape.

4:09 – He has gone from a purplish tint to a normal, healthy pink. He is not happy about his change of venue.

4:15 – I wheel him out of the OR to the cheering of awaiting grandparents. As a nurse walks with me, I turn and say, “They’ll clean this stuff off of him, right?” The nurse ignores me, which, in retrospect, was the wise thing to do.

4:45 p.m. – Mom is finally wheeled out of recovery and gets to hold her son for the first time. She asks, “Are my legs down there?” Epidural still going strong.

Pretty much from there on out, it was standard procedure. People came to visit; they cooed and said he was cute; I corrected them and said that he is a boy, and therefore ruggedly handsome. You know, that kind of stuff.

I am looking forward to bringing him home soon. If the first day was any indication, Parker will teach me a lot about parenting and about life. In fact, only hours into his life, he already taught me something.

6:12 p.m. – Changing a boy’s diaper is much more dangerous than changing a girl’s.