I don’t really like hospitals. After a baby is born, you’re stuck in one for a few. I realized after midnight the night our daughter was born, my wife hadn’t eaten since an apple 27 hours earlier (unless you count those very filling ice chips) and I forgot a pillow and blanket. I ran home and then snagged Taco Bell for her. I had to be the only sober person there at 1 am on a Tuesday.
The worst thing about post pregnancy isn’t the nurses or staff, it’s the fact they are in the damn room every seven minutes. Nurses, housekeeping, doctors, admin staff, the lady that gets the food, nurses for the mom, lactation consultants, vaginologists…OK, I may have made that last one up. “Make sure you rest. Get some sleep. You need sleep. That’s why I’ll be back in four minutes to check on you and wake you up.” One of my favorites was a head nurse that came in. “Here’s the important paperwork that I need to go over with you both.” OK, let ‘er rip. “First…Oh! My phone. I’ll be right back!” She never came back and we realized the packet was full of questions to ask before you get discharged. Terrific!
I also got to change my first diaper. Some people were shocked. Well, when I was in my 20’s, I sure didn’t volunteer to change other people’s kids soiled britches. I’m not a fan of poop or having to register when I move. It was pretty easy, until Gracie decided to kick like a mule and plant her entire foot into a soft pile of meconium. That’s the dark poo that reminds you of the fourth day of Spring Break in college hangover dark poo. I got it and immediately started googling “Potty Train your two day old.” Hint: It can’t be done. Needless to say, after the rotation door of medical staff, the general feeling of being cooped up and the lack of quality sleep made us want to home pretty badly – like Andy from Shawshank Redemption crawling through a sewer pipe desperate to get out. Mercifully, they let us out through the door just 44 hours after the grand arrival. Good, I’m too fat to fit in the pipe anyways.