45/52 – From "Love Boat" to "Monday Night Football"
This week, our oldest, Joey, turns 40.
I remember a conversation I had with my mom the day I turned 40. She called me to wish me happy birthday, and I spent some time talking about how bummed I was about this milestone, and the great consequence of crossing this seemingly incomprehensible barrier.
Her response, “Well, how the hell you think it feels to have a child who is 40 years old?”
On the cusp of an entirely different milestone that begins with a 7, her response has a lot more resonance to me now.
I recently came across the following, which I wrote a few weeks after Joey was born.
My goodness, where have the years gone?
From "Love Boat" to "Monday Night Football" — Dec 1984
We were prepared. Oh boy, were we prepared. Natural Childbirth. Prepared Childbirth. Lamaze. Whatever the term, we were ready. This was our first child, and being compulsive over-preparers and worriers, we were going to be sure we didn't blow it.
After all our preparation, little did we know that we were in for a labor that would enter the family history books -- a labor that would last from "Love Boat" to "Monday Night Football."
My wife Mary Glenn and I were determined to do everything we could to be ready for the arrival of our first. For starters, we took not one but two childbirth classes, one from the natural childbirth folks and the other from our hospital. Conservatively speaking, we saw 792 births in living color via movies and slides in our six sessions in each class.
One film captured my attention. In it, the "labor experiences" of eight couples were chronicled. The featured couples in the movie represented a true cross-section of American social and ethnic groups. At first, this was a bit odd, but I realized that our class was also very heterogeneous.
Somebody wrote that childbirth classes are the last true melting pot in America, and this was certainly our experience. Our class featured one couple that brought pillows emblazoned with Elvis' face, another that wore suits and brought their briefcases to class, and a third that arrived in a car with wheels so enormous that they needed a step ladder to get into the front seat.
This movie featured all sorts of interesting characters, bound together by the imminent onset of labor and a penchant for wildly colored shirts and bell-bottom trousers (the film was a bit dated). The movie was encouraging to us, though, in that babies were popping out of their mothers with amazing rapidity.
This was good news. If these eight couples, seemingly just back from Woodstock, could have babies with relative ease, we would have no problem. After all, we were taking two sets of childbirth classes.
In our quest to learn all there was to know about childbearing, we also bought or borrowed every book on birth published in the English language. Thank You, Dr. Lamaze. Birth Without Pain. Labor by the Numbers. The One-Minute Labor Manager. The Harvard Business School's Guide to Painless Labor (via the case method). All of these were devoured and committed to memory.
We also benefitted from the sage advice of relatives, friends, and supermarket check-out people. "Carrying low -- must be a boy." "You're all in front -- it's going to be a girl." "Just wait till you hit TRANSITION." (Note: In labor horror stories, transition is always spelled uppercase,)
So, we were ready. We had seen the movies, read the books, and absorbed the advice. Mary Glenn had not had a cup of coffee, a can of beer, or an aspirin for nine months. We were ready for any contingency. Or so we thought.
Since I am always early for my appointments, I thought the baby would be early, too. I considered the baby's arrival imminent about three weeks before the due date. At every twinge, I examined our "goody bag" to ensure everything was there, including the tennis balls and the lollipops. I read and re-read our childbirth books on the bus to and from work. This elicited strange looks since books featuring full-page female anatomical diagrams are not usually considered acceptable reading on our commuting bus.
Mary Glenn's first severe pains came ten days after the due date on a Saturday night. At first, we didn't take them seriously. After all, we were veterans of five weeks or so of sporadic contractions.
Not to mention that "Love Boat" was on, with the prospect of "Fantasy Island" to follow. (I must add at this point, though, that we had absolutely no intention of watching either of these shows; they just happened to be on. We usually watch only public television and "Celebrity Wrestling.")
But the twinges continued through "Love Boat" and "Fantasy Island." ("Boss, boss. Zee Pain. Zee Pain.") "Aha," we thought, "this is it." However, we tried to avoid getting too excited. The books said we should go to bed and get some sleep -- Mary Glenn would need her rest later. So off we went to bed.
At about 1 a.m., Mary Glenn woke me up and said she thought this was it. We timed contractions about six minutes apart and 50 seconds long. We were almost to the mythical five minutes apart and one minute long, which our doctor said was the threshold for going to the hospital. Sensing that our departure for the hospital was within the next hour or so, we both took showers to make sure that we would be as clean as possible for the arrival of our baby; we didn't want him to think that we had bad hygiene or anything, At one point, I even said -- certainly accompanied by appropriate swelling of background music -- "Just think, hon, our baby will probably be born before lunch today,"
Not so fast, buster. By noon on Sunday, we were still at home, with contractions still six or seven minutes apart, and still no closer to having a baby, "Hmm," I thought, "nobody mentioned this," Mary Glenn had had an "interesting" first twelve hours of labor that included two hours of sleep, pretty intense pains, and still no progress at all toward the elusive five minute threshold, We called the doctor, and he uttered the words that would echo through our ears for the next day or so: "False Labor."
False labor, indeed. This was real pain for an extended period of time, but apparently with no purpose. Most of our research had not mentioned this phenomenon or only in passing, with the comment, "Shift your position, and it will go away." It didn't.
The doctor suggested that we go for a walk, And so we walked, and we walked, and we walked. We cut a fine figure in the neighborhood, waddling along at about ten feet per minute, stopping every six or seven minutes to deal with a pain. Still, the pains came without any sign of a let-up. Sometimes, the pains went up to ten minutes apart, but they never went away.
Then, finally, around 6 p.m. Sunday, we crossed the threshold. Five minutes apart, 90 seconds long, and for over an hour! Hallelujah! Consoled by the thought that the pains were finally accomplishing something, Mary Glenn's spirits rose. We called the doctor to get him to the hospital, and it happened during our conversation. Back to ten minutes apart!
Oh no, not again. The doctor again issued his verdict: "False Labor." If he had been in the room with us, he would have been a dead man.
We asked what we could do, and he suggested Mary Glenn have a beer to relax her. A beer! After nine months of abstinence, supposedly on the verge of birth, with no sleep and an empty stomach, a beer was about the last thing she wanted to see. She wanted to know why this suggestion had not been made in July at a ball game in Memorial Stadium when a beer would have tasted so good with a hot dog and pretzel. I don't think I have ever seen anyone enjoy a beer less. You would have thought that she was drinking transmission fluid.
But it did the trick, and we thought Mary Glenn could finally get some sleep. After 30 minutes, though, the pains were back, holding steady at the 6-7 minute plateau and relatively intense.
This was getting ridiculous. My mind drifted back to that childbirth movie with the eight couples. Sure, the women in the movie experienced pain, but in each case, they were on their way to the hospital virtually moments after the first major twinges. Yet there we sat, miserable, tired, and still at home after nearly 24 hours of labor.
Sunday night seemed to last an eternity. No sleep and frequent pains, although not frequent enough to go anywhere. By Monday morning, we had had it. False labor or actual labor or whatever; somebody would see Mary Glenn because I didn't think we could go another night without sleep.
Our doctor was at the hospital for another delivery, so we arranged to see him there. We fully expected to be sent home in humiliation: "This is false labor! Get out of here, and don't show your face until you're in real labor."
They wheeled Mary Glenn in, gave her a snappy hospital gown, and parked us in a labor room. After 45 minutes or so, the doctor came in to check for dilation. We thought, "Well, at least we made it to the labor room. We may never have this baby; he may stay in the womb until he's ready for first grade, but at least we got to see the inside of the hospital."
The doctor snapped on his gloves and dove in to check. The words that came out of his mouth sounded as good to us as a papal blessing: "Yes, you're about 4 centimeters dilated."
We were in shock. "What? You mean we can stay?"
"Certainly. This baby is going to be born today."
I almost kissed the man. Despite our preparation, classes, and books, we were both secretly looking forward to being at the hospital. At least I was. If something went wrong there, at least there would be trained people to care for things. Granted, I was exceptionally well prepared. With my B.A. in History and certificates from two childbirth classes, I was almost ready to open my own clinic. But I was gracious enough to share the limelight with other well-trained professionals.
So now we were set. The contractions started corning with increasing frequency and intensity. We used our breathing techniques for most of the previous 36 hours, but maintaining the patterns became increasingly difficult. Sometimes, I had to grab Mary Glenn's face to help her focus on the patterns.
As the pain increased, I became more and more uncomfortable with the situation. After all, the whole childbearing setup is not exactly fair. It's one thing to say that both partners are "sharing the experience" and that the father has all these responsibilities during the process, but when you come right down to it, the mother really does most of the work. Not only does she have to suffer an exploding body and rampaging hormones for nine months and give up beer and coffee, but then she also gets to have all the pain at the end. It would seem like a fairer deal if the mother expanded all out of proportion and the father experienced the pain, or vice versa.
It makes you think that a male designed the whole process.
We had planned all along to "go natural." Who made up such a term? If you need medication, does this mean that you have had an "unnatural" experience? Does it mean that you have "unnatural" children?
Anyway, Mary Glenn planned to go the whole route without medication. We weren’t fanatics about the idea, but that was our intention. Pains vary from person to person, and all labors are different, so we decided to see how the whole thing went. After all, no one was waiting in the recovery room with a medal, and President Reagan was not going to dial in his congratulations to Mary Glenn if she survived without medication. Nor was anyone going to take the children away from the mothers who needed some medication. The result was the same no matter the process.
As Monday afternoon wore on, it became apparent that Mary Glenn was having a hard time keeping "on top" of the pain. She had reached 7-8 centimeters, but things were getting tough. A major problem was that Mary Glenn had been awake for 36 hours and had nothing to eat for the entire weekend. Aside from that and incredible pain, she was doing fine. No problem.
In our part of the country, the epidural block is the usual medication given for pain. At about 3 p.m., Mary Glenn decided that she had had enough. They sent me out of the room while they administered the epidural and directed me to don a set of designer hospital clothes. When I left Mary Glenn, she looked terrible. I felt awful that she was going through so much pain and that there was so little I could do to help. It's great to say that the father offers "moral support" and helps with the breathing, but the mother is the one in pain.
When I returned, Mary Glenn looked like a different person. She was relaxed, comfortable, and smiling. I could hardly believe the change. I thanked God for whoever had invented the epidural block.
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly. Mary Glenn could still feel the contractions, but they were no longer painful. Mary Glenn's contractions had been reasonably irregular since way back in the "Love Boat" days, and they seemed to get more erratic as the afternoon progressed. They eventually began to administer Pitocin to help things along.
Finally, at about 7 p.m. E.S.T., the doctor gave Mary Glenn the go-ahead to push. A nurse took one leg, and I took the other, and together we began a wild series of incantations designed to make Mary Glenn push harder. Things went like this: "Come on hon. Pushpushpushpushpush. Thereyougo. Thereyougo. Thereyougo. Goodgoodgoodgood. OK, relax."
I should warn squeamish first-time fathers that this is the point where things get a little wild for those with light stomachs. Up until the pushing, there is a lot of pain, a lot of heavy breathing, and a lot of anxiety, but not too much assaulting you visually. Once the pushing starts, though, there are all sorts of body parts unveiled to you that don't look like any parts you've encountered before. I will admit that for a minute or so, I felt a little unsteady, but pretty soon, I got caught up in the excitement and in my incantation responsibilities. The blood didn't bother me too much.
After an hour or so of pushing, I saw the head. This was really something. There was a little person in there, after all. I could see all sorts of hair on his or her head.
At about 8:45, things started moving. We were ready to go to the delivery room. The nurse left us alone for a few minutes, and we realized this was a unique moment in our lives. We only had a few minutes left as a couple; we would shortly be a family.
Once we were in the delivery room, the obstetrician quickly earned his money. Before we knew it, forceps were whipped through the air like samurai swords. We watched through a mirror as the forceps were inserted, and suddenly, the head was out. Seeing the head was amazing. We both knew at that moment that our firstborn would be a boy. I'm curious to know how we knew; we just did.
A few seconds later, the rest of Joseph Price Mancini (named for his grandfathers) came sliding out, and almost immediately afterward, Mary Glenn held him in her arms. Of course, we did all the usual things - counting fingers and toes and making sure that he was alright. It is difficult to say how we felt. We were ecstatic, and I felt a closeness to my wife that touched me more than I could ever communicate to anyone. But I think we mostly felt tired, thankful, and relieved. They had just kicked off on "Monday Night Football."
We had learned quite a bit over those hours from "Love Boat" to "Monday Night Football." First, we were glad we spent so much time preparing for labor. Although the labor was hard, it would have been infinitely harder without the patterned breathing and basic knowledge of what was happening. Emphasis on "basic."
Second, there is no such thing as a "typical labor." One thing that annoyed me was that our research never mentioned how tedious, long, and frustrating so-called "false labor" could be. In almost everything we saw in print or on film, you got the feeling that labor was an orderly process, with one phase naturally leading to the next and the intensity increasing to the moment when pushing began. We weren't prepared for the possibility of a long, protracted labor going nowhere.
Finally, I don't think anyone can tell you what it means to become a parent. That first moment you see your little boy or girl is truly special and impossible to articulate. One can use metaphors, analogies, and flowery language to describe a birth, but I don't think any of this can do it justice.
The only thing that I can honestly say about the arrival of Joseph Price is that it is an event that touched my soul, one of those rare moments of pure joy and love that will never leave me.
But watch out. The memories of labor fade quickly compared to the reality of a child, and it is only a short time before you start thinking about going through the whole experience again.
Happy 40th Birthday, Joey.
