My wife just gave birth to our first kid. It was actually pretty crazy. Yeah... I get home from work, and, right off the bat, she's in my face saying it's time to go. Me being the aloof bastard that I am, I ask, "Go where?" She just looks at me like I'm a complete idiot, which I am. So I round up all of the necessities:
Baby stuffs (diapers, bottles, clothes, burp rags, etc...)
Wife stuffs (clothes, a vast array of ointments, etc...)
Husband stuffs (IPOD?, crash helmet for when I faint because I know it's going to happen, change of clothes for when I am imminently spattered upon, etc...)
We pile into the car and speed off to the hospital. Traffic is horrible, so that week I spent at the Nascar Training School for Wannabes really pays off. When we get there, I run into the waiting room, incoherently babbling about what's going on. The nurse at the check-in station must speak Incoherent Babble because she knows exactly what I'm saying.
When my lovely wife is finally settled in her room (can I say settled? She's nine months pregnant with a belly the size of a large beer keg and the worst pair of cankles you've ever seen!), I get ready for my part of what's about to happen. You see, everyone has there job when it comes to giving birth. The mother-to-be... well... she does her thing. The doc (hopefully) knows their job. Me? I'm the DJ. Hence, the IPOD. That's right. I'm not letting this kid into the world without a proper dose of Michael Jackson and Hall and Oates "Maneater".
As I'm setting up the DJ equipment, the nurse informs me that it's time to start pushing. Oh? Is that what she's screaming for? Great! So the nurse looks at me and says, "Do you want to help?"
"Sure", I say. "I'm the DJ. Don't you see the IPOD?" The nurse winces and tells me to help with the right leg. Isn't that HER job?
So I'm standing there, holding up the right leg (which is what got us here in the first place), and the doctor walks in. Within a few minutes, he says, "I can see the head. Take a look!" I imagine it looks like a purple rock with a bit of hair, but that sounds gross, so I don't look. After ten minutes or so, he looks up at me and asks, "Do you want to help with the head?"
"No!", I think. But I don't like confrontation, so I agree. I reach down and grab the head in my hands and give it a little tug.
"Pull a little harder than that", says the doctor.
"I might pull the head off!", I pronounce.
"You won't pull the head off." So I pull harder. The neck is really elongating... kinda like those African women. You know, the ones with the discs? Finally, the baby is free and I'm covered in... something... I don't know what. But the baby looks great (as great as can be, I guess), and I lay him down on my wife's chest. The doc holds out a pair of weird-looking scissors and says, "Do you want to cut the umbilical cord?" (Do I have to do all the work here?)
"No!", I think, but the whole confrontation thing... you know. So I agree.
Clamp... clamp... snip... and he's free of the womb forever. No going back. Both wife and baby look great.
And we have a son. What have we gotten ourselves into? Well, time to start living vicariously through the little tike. Hey! That breast is mine!!! GET OFF OF IT!
Why should you consider me for the Bullet-Proof Bandits? My rank is on the rise, I'm a very enjoyable person to be around, and I'm looking for a quality group of people to associate with here at CC.
Eye. Mull. Of. Ma. Sheen.