Last week, my husband and I got into a discussion about how things will go down in the delivery room when this baby decides to grace us with her presence. I had told him previously that I am all about “traditional” and that I in no way need him loitering about anywhere south of my bellybutton when it’s go time. I’m a firm believer that the sight of such, er, complex goings on during birth can haunt a man for years and besides, I’d want him within grabbing distance so when I’m imploring, wide-eyed, “ICHANGEDMYMINDIDON’TWANTTODELIVERABABY” he can calmly say, “Too late, Sweet Pea,” feed me an ice chip, and smooth back my hair.
However, when he heard “traditional” in my original shpiel he interpreted that somewhat differently, as I learned in last week’s conversation. A rough transcript:
Him: “I’m actually going to be in the room for the delivery?”
Me: (double take) “Yes. Why?”
Him: “I thought you said you wanted it to be traditional.”
Me: (triple take) “I did, but I meant you staying up with me by my noggin’.”
Him: “I thought you meant I’d be out in the waiting room.”
Me: (quadruple take) “WHAT?! No, you cannot be in the waiting room! I said ‘traditional’ not 1950s!”
Him: “Oh. OK.”
And apparently after we had this conversation he actually went and conferred with other dudes at work to see if this was a normal request on my part. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. I’m married to the entire male character lineup on Mad Men.
[STAY TUNED FOR PART II LATER TODAY: Briefed last night that this post was coming (hey, I’m nothing if not fair, especially after he sicced his PR firm on me last time), my husband provided a mock-incensed defense that gave way to what was clearly the heartfelt rationale behind his thought process…]