I think I was in recovery for about 10 minutes clutching my swaddled newborn with a grip that must be unique to someone who just became a father mere minutes ago.  I couldn’t help but stare at the tiny little features of the creature that was sleeping in my arms – she was just like a miniature human.  Actually, I guess she IS a miniature human.  Weird.

I did occasionally break the staring contest with Justine to quickly glance over my shoulder in anticipation of my wife being wheeled into recovery.  I was anxious for her to actually hold what they had so gingerly ripped from her insides, and more importantly, for me to relieve the intense burning that comes with the aforementioned “newborn vise grip.”  My diligent watch was interrupted only once, when our OBGYN, still in scrubs, wandered in to take a quick look at the baby and to tell me that everything went great.  She certainly had cleaned up somewhat – the last I had seen her she was covered in baby/Kim goo.  After a brief chat, she left for another procedure and I returned to my silent reverie.

Finally, the nurses wheeled Kim into the room.  Ostensibly the point of recovery was to monitor Mom and baby, and so they immediately hooked her up to all sorts of gadgetry that monitored everything from her heart rate and breathing to her favorite color on a second by second basis.  (“Blood pressure is 120 over 80, color is currently fluctuating between ochre and mauve…”)  Once she was in and settled, I quickly dispensed of our newborn child into her mother’s waiting arms, and reached for my fancy new camera to snap a few photos of this momentous occasion.

The first few moments of a mother and her child are beautiful and heartwarming. I watched intently as they bonded in a way that only they could, specifically because it was her first attempt at breastfeeding, and, as previously mentioned, I do not possess the parts for that particular operation.  Apparently at this point in development, baby has the impulse to suck but Mom doesn’t have a ton to offer.  In a short time, Mom starts producing colustrum, which is a runny goo that contains a lot of antibodies and just a wee bit of chocolate ganache that’s a great start for baby.  Eventually, and we’re talking days here, Mom’s “milk” comes in and baby starts to gain weight.

Figuring out the process of breastfeeding is a learning curve both for Mom and baby, and in our case the road would be a bit steep.  In just an hour, we went from watching the Price is Right to trying to finagle this little human into the right position to feed.  Position is the key, we found out, and initial attempts at getting Justine in the right spot was tough considering a) the baby was minutes old b) the baby was swaddled tight because, left to her own devices, she’d suck on her toes c) I had no idea what to do and perhaps most importantly d) Kim had no feeling from her chest down.  I tried as best I could to help getting everything situated. At one point Kim asked me to move ‘this pillow’ – after a quick feel I replied that said lump was actually Kim’s right leg.

Our comical attempts at breastfeeding complete for a few minutes, I was sent down in stereotypical fashion to the waiting room to inform the waiting parents of the glorious news. I called my mother to tell her the standard info (gender, name, weight, political affiliation, etc.)  Then I proceeded to the waiting room to tell everyone else to much congratulations and high fives.  In retrospect I should’ve planned this out a bit more – walking in and passing out cigars for example, or running in with a swaddled bag of flour and then tripping and launching it across the room to the horror of everyone, and then whipping out my camera to take hilarious pictures of their powder covered faces.  And THEN passing out cigars.

Wow.  That’s messed up.  Even for me.

I showed the assembled folks the pictures I took during the birth, relayed the requisite digits, and told harrowing tales about how I had to step in to relieve the OBGYN while Kim lay open on the table at one point and how I later disarmed a madman who held our anesthesiologist at knifepoint.  They were captivated, if a bit skeptical.  Soon I felt compelled to return to recovery and back to my new, squirming child, and newly wounded wife.

We spent our last few minutes in recovery peacefully holding a tightly swaddled Justine, snapping pictures, and watching as Kim slowly began to wiggle her toes, her feet and finally her ankles.  And then our short time in recovery quickly came to an end as the nurse wheeled us out and toward our home for the next few days on the postpartum floor.  As we rolled out I left the newspaper that another new father had given me on his way out – there would undoubtedly be more new fathers today.

But for us, the road to recovery lay ahead.  Oh, and parenthood too.

Under normal circumstances, I would not attend such a class. There are a variety of reasons for this, most notably the long understood inability of men to breastfeed their children. I simply do not have the parts, nor do I foresee a time in the future when that particular situation will change (let’s hope). In addition to this obvious situation, there are several other notable reasons why I would not attend such a class, including the fact that I didn’t really want to, and that (again) I don’t have the parts.

In any case, it was made clear to me that I would attend the class, ostensibly to help retain the knowledge of this feminine art and to helpfully remind my wife of “latching” tips at 4 AM in the morning while our newborn child gently reminds us that he/she is, in fact, very hungry by screaming endlessly and at high pitch. I resigned myself to my fate and dutifully informed my boss, to some snickering, that I would need to miss a little work to attend the class.

The class was scheduled for right after work on a Monday, and so I jetted from my job a few minutes early, winging my way across town towards an hour of “edulactation.” I arrived just a couple minutes late, and opened the door to see my wife, our nurse instructor, and two other very pregnant women. And no other husbands. Apparently husbands don’t normally attend these things, I discovered. Perhaps because of their INABILITY TO BREASTFEED. Sigh. I took my seat next to my apologetic wife and prepared for uncomfortable conversations.

I think that if I was to give a title to the book of our childbirth experience, one of the front runners would definitely be “Interesting Characters.” Joining the long string of odd folks that have punctuated our journey, our breastfeeding instructor Janelle warmly greeted us. Janelle, in short, is VERY passionate about breastfeeding. I mean, VERY VERY passionate. Passionate in a crazy-eyes sort of way. I couldn’t help but chuckle at once again encountering such an odd soul in our birthing journey.

Janelle began by discussing every thing BUT breastfeeding. She is a very dedicated (fanatical) proponent of a concept she repeatedly referred to as “skin-to-skin.” This theory holds that newborn children perform best early in life by spending much of their time sleeping topless on Mom’s (or, in some cases Dad’s – although I think she was just trying to include me in the conversation since I was the ONLY MAN THERE) bare chest. The infant apparently will sync their heart beat and breathing to match the parent on whose chest they lay, and this process leads to a calmer, less colicky child. In addition, studies have shown that skin-to-skin babies score higher on their SATs, sucessfully answer 20% more Jeopardy questions (on average) than their peers, and some even develop the ability to telepathically communicate with small cats and rabbits. The advantage, as Janelle explained them to us, was clear and unquestionable. After the 20 minute lecture, I certainly had no questions.

After our lengthy side discussion, we finally began discussing the process of breastfeeding. I’m sure it was a deep and informative discussion, punctuated with diagrams, “Boppy” pillows, and prosthetic, knitted breasts. But I’ll be honest. I zoned out for most of it. I mean, honestly, it was a 45 minute discussion on “latching,” “proper lactation angles” and “breastpump etiquette.” I sat there, mostly trying to resist the urge to ask the questions that I could not block from my mind:

• If she eats a ton of chocolate, can she emit chocolate milk? What about strawberries?

• While breastfeeding, if one breast runs dry, does it make a sucking sound like a straw at the bottom of an empty glass? On a related note, does it deflate?

• If she drinks a ton of cow’s milk, will it still be her milk, or will it be the cow’s milk?

• I’ve heard a lot about skin-to-skin. Can you spend 30 minutes explaining it again?

Well, in any case, before I knew it, the lecture was over and the mothers-to-be were comparing notes on how awful they were feeling, how their backs were hurting, ribs were getting kicked by their unborn children, and their overall discomfort at this late stage in their pregnancy. Then they all started to look at me with those men did this to us look. I saw the writing on the wall, grabbed my wife’s hand and high-tailed it out of there before “pregnancy rage” claimed another innocent husband’s life.

Are we now 100% prepared for the challenges and rewards of breastfeeding? Probably not. But I look to history, and the success of millions, if not billions of mothers throughout time that have gotten this to work, and I have faith that we can get it done.

Or at least that Kim can. Remember, I don’t have the parts…