Sunny Side Up April 20, 2005 � 2005, Kathleen Gibson Childbirth is Dad's business too Benjamin at birth Childbirth is mostly women's business. From the start of a pregnancy to its end, it's Mom who gets the publicity. Dad, equally responsible for the 'bun in the oven', is largely ignored. He's not lugging around oven and bun, after all. We make sure expectant Moms take their vitamins and eat correctly. In public places strangers give up their seats for them and pat their tummies. Shopping malls designate parking stalls for pregnant women. And till that pregnancy is over, doctors hop to their beck and call. When baby arrives, so do flowers and showers, praise and pampering. My daughter Amanda gave birth to the Preacher's and my first grandchild on April 4. He's perfect in every way (my mama taught me to be humble!) and I'm glad for every time I nagged her about her diet, let her hog the couch during visits, or slowed my walk to match her waddle. She carried a God-made miracle - we make way for miracles. 'Grandpa' and I attended the birth of that miracle. I'm still smiling. We welcome Benjamin. We're thrilled God sent him to us. His mother was a champion, and we're so proud of her. But so was his father. Amanda's contractions came hard and fast; mostly in her back. While the Preacher kept out of the way (praying, he said), Kendall massaged her back. I helped, but he seldom lifted his hands. We worked simultaneously, hour after hour, trying to take the edge off the pain for the girl we both love. Kendall stands over six feet. That's a long ways to bend down. Once I noticed him trying to straighten his own back and massage Amanda's at the same time. He looked so funny. Worried. Earnest. Far too serious. "Hey, Kendall," I whispered, "If she's the one in labor, how come we're the ones sweating?" He chuckled, but kept rubbing, his big hands further down Amanda's back than mine. "Breathe, honey!" I told my daughter once, when she seemed distracted. "I AM!" she said. (Well, snapped. Loudly. But at least she didn't slap my face like I did the Preacher's during our first childbirth.) Kendall met my eyes from across the bed, and grinned. He massaged furiously, as though he could rub that baby right out of his wife. Often it seemed we had far too few hands. Whenever one of us stopped for even a second, we'd hear, "Whoever's on top (or bottom), DON'T STOP!" It's all over, now. We've met the tyke who caused all that fuss. Benjamin. I'll love him forever. And forever I'll live with the memory of his Daddy's big hands working alongside mine. Coaxing his son into the world. Ignoring his own discomfort to make his wife's less. But I'll remember something else too. His eyes. Often throughout the day they glistened with tears. Not for himself. For her. It's every mother's dream that her daughter marry a husband who loves her like that. I'm living it. And I thank God. Respond Home |
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