icon-arrow-down icon icon-arrow-fill-down icon icon-arrow-next icon icon-arrow-prev icon icon-tag-close icon

Family Matters

How My Dad Ended Up in the Delivery Room

Who doesn’t love a good birth story?

SHARE

When I had my first child, I have to be honest: I didn’t do oodles of research or craft much of a plan. I took the courses and watched the videos, but I just wanted someone to hand me a happy-yet-crying baby who's been declared healthy. "The End." And since I didn't like being pregnant, I happily accepted my doctor's offer to be induced. Even better? My then-husband and I chose an ultra-swanky hospital in LA that was more like a fancy hotel with nurses who happen to also make great smoothies.

Aside from an interesting (read: absolutely horrifying) part where I had to have a balloon inserted all up in my business, the day went by fairly uneventfully. Once the epidural kicked in, I savored the last moments before my life would forever be about someone else, but it was also as if the last nine months hadn’t even happened. All of a sudden, I felt like I was doing something I felt like I didn't sign up for. Knowing me well, my mother hugged me around my gigantic belly and told me that I was going to be the most wonderful mother in the world. To this day, it’s still one of my favorite life moments.

You see, my family is very close—sometimes too close, which is where this story is headed. We love our wine and cheese plates, and we were born to overindulge. So, it was unrealistic to think that a day in which a baby would emerge from my nether region would be any different. My parents were sipping on white wine as I leisurely watched a TV show from my hospital bed when all of a sudden my doctor emerged from her sushi dinner nearby and said it was “Go Time.” We were all apparently unaware of how fast things would eventually happen. I thought my dad would have been long gone by then but, alas, there he was, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of doom.

My dad told me later that it felt like he was wearing cement boots and he was just waiting for someone to save him. He tried to leave, but everyone assured him he should stay, and it was as if I was caught in my own personal horror story.

“Get up top!” was all I could scream between contractions to at least ensure he wouldn’t see “the action.” He did as he was told, all the while looking like he was going to cry.

When all was said and done, my sweet lil’ Finnegan was born and, although I would never regain the privacy from all that goes on “downtown,” I didn’t care. At that moment, I didn’t even care that Dad nearly saw all my bits, as I now had this perfect angel—and all was right with the world.

“Where’s MY wine?” I asked. And our new life began.