Labor pains

In an uncertain world, isn't it comforting to know there are certain inalienable truths about guys you can always count on? 

For example, we prefer long hair.  (That doesn't mean we hate your short hair, it just means we like long hair better.)  We despise asking anyone for directions and consider getting lost a much more attractive option.  We forget things.  (Or sometimes just don't pay attention when we're told the thing in the first place.  Same diff.)  And we are unable to bear children.

But regarding the latter, I tell you this, friends: I came as close as any of my uterus-challenged counterparts ever has this past weekend.

I'm referring, of course, to the Alabama-LSU game.  #1 versus #2.  The so-called Game of the Century.

I've written before to some length as to the near-constant state of anxiety and stress I'm under while watching a Bama game.  But never had I heard it put so perfectly until discussing the game with a friend last week, when she said, "This game will be like birthing a child for you."

Yes!  Finally, someone who gets me.  That's it exactly.  And before anyone gets offended by me comparing childbirth to a football game, let's remember -- this is Alabama.  Also, the comment came from a girl who has a child.  So, I think she would know.  And I have email documentation.  So I will not allow these "birther" questions to derail my campaign for comedy.

I'd say the contractions probably started sometime on Thursday.  When the big day arrived on Saturday, I was beyond nervous, as I'm sure any woman in my situation would be.  I had chosen to do a home birth at LJ's with he and Wolfgang serving as my trusted, if primitive, midwives.  I also decided not to use any sedatives or other medication during the procedure.  That may have been a serious mistake.

As for the labor itself, it was even more painful than I expected.  Four hours of yelling, banging, whining, and possibly a little cursing.  Just before halftime, Wolfgang's wife took her two daughters and went home.  (What?  Was it something I said/threw/yelled?)  Take that as a lesson.  Childbirth is no place for women and children.  The irony of which doesn't escape me.

In the end, imagine my horror as a baby resembling Les Miles emerged wearing a god-awful white LSU cap, and I realized Nick Saban was not the father.  For days I lay listless.  Unfeeling.  In a haze.  Only now am I able to speak of it.

If all that wasn't enough, I gained a pound over the weekend.  Don't you just hate those guys who have kids and never gain an ounce?  Hussies!

And now I'm reading there's a slight chance there could be a rematch?!  Oy.  My now-hollow insides are hurting just thinking about it.  I don't know if I can handle a second one. 

I may have to take a Lamaze class.  Or do some Kegels.

"Who dat is?  That's just my baby daddy..."