A Child gives Birth to the Man

By Michael M. Murray

As a child of the fifties, my idea of childbirth came from old American sitcoms. The mother is closeted away, the father chain-smokes pacing the hospital waiting room. After some magical process, a nurse displays a neat bundle from behind a glass screen. Surrounding the nurse is a sea of similar little bundles. The proud father then goes to a bar where he hands out cigars and is patted on the back by his mates. Tobacco had a major role in the birthing ritual back then.

I’m now in my fifties and just had my first child. My partner who is in her mid thirties chose the home birth option. The glass partitions, white curtains and nurses were not included. I covered the floor of the spare room in old sheets and blew up a plastic birthing pool. I learned about mucous plugs and placentas. I went to Calm Birth classes and learned about the wonders of the uterus, a magnificent organ that we men, preoccupied with our dicks, should have more respect for.

I didn’t attempt to hide my panic at having a child so late in life. Half my mind was happy and enthusiastic while my other mind, a dark and fearful mind, was at war with the happy mind. My dark mind had more ammunition and made my happy mind feel like the green zone in Baghdad. I was convinced this would be the end of my freedom, my independence and my bachelor ways. I saw fatherhood as a mundane existence of changing nappies, awake all night and having to eat dinner at McDonald’s at five o’clock in the afternoon. These thoughts invaded my sleep and I became an insomniac.

Susanna had her own problems. She was challenged by the stereotype of the vibrant earth goddess, aglow with new life and surging blissful hormones. Instead, her head was either in the toilet bowl or in the fridge. She had a long and intimate relationship with these white goods while I was left alone to wander around all night cursing my fate. The process she was under was a mystery to me. I just knew I had exchanged my trim and terrific girlfriend for a belching bulimic stranger who reacted like a vampire to the smell of garlic, cried for no reason and got lost in supermarkets.

I was in my mid forties before I realised that children were a part of the planet. I began to notice them at friends’ houses or in the street. Before then they were covered by the fuzzy vision you see on TV when there are rude bits or court defendants. After noticing them, I began to think they were cute.

Boys on bicycles and little girls in party frocks — they were all cute! I remember one day driving past a sports field where kids were playing soccer. The parents were on the sideline, proud and excited. It looked like a private club. Then, with dread and foreboding, I realised it was a club I wanted to join.

And so I found myself up all night helping my partner push a person through her vagina. I always thought the reason to have sex was to have fun. But now I could see, in all its gory detail, that the real reason for sex was no fun at all. Apparently there is a tribe in Borneo where the man has a string tied to his testicles. During the birth, the wife pulls on the string during the worst contractions so the father can share in her suffering.

Fortunately this ritual was not a part of my beloved’s birth plan.

Somewhere I still felt all this was secret women’s business. As the midwives set the mood with crystals and candles, I filled the plastic pool and wondered how to make myself useful. Soon Susanna was making eerie noises from another time. I gave her sips of water and mopped her brow. I massaged her back and held her hand. And as the long intense hours passed I felt we were in a place where human souls come and go between the worlds. I was happy to be there.

We waited and waited for that baby’s head to appear. After 24 hours the midwives packed away the crystals and candles and then packed us into the car for a mad dash to the hospital. I thought of the drama of being pulled over for speeding while my passenger thought only of pain relief. As her waters broke in the back seat, I was amazed that my first thought was for my leather upholstery. Was I really going to be a good father?

At the hospital, I felt like a med student studying for final exams as I tried to get a grip on the complexities of the birth process. It truly is a miracle. The many intricacies of physics and physiology had not aligned for us. But all that didn’t matter. I got to have two birth experiences and our healthy baby girl got an assisted passage into the world. The final caesarean operation was performed in a light-hearted relaxed manner and all the previous drama was swept aside. Only a few generations ago, I would have been left wifeless and childless.

I got to hold my little baby girl alone for an hour while we waited for her mother to come out of the operating room. I was conscious of the life-changing moment and realised that something new in me had also been born. And as the days of caring for a newborn being languidly drift by, I slowly grow into fatherhood. My fears were phantom. I accept nappy changing and night interruptions with equanimity. I can stare into my baby’s face and see a future that I want to share. I got to experience one of life’s rituals that make us human and humble.

Give the man a cigar! 

Published in Kindred issue 22, June 07

For most of his multi-textured life, Michael Murray has been a writer, documentary producer and director. He now spends his time between surfing and changing nappies as a property buyer’s agent and finance broker (www.byronpropertysearch.com.au). He lives in Byron Bay with his partner, Susanna and little baby Lucy.