Posted on April 29, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

We just returned home from a busy weekend in Halifax to share in the joy of the birth of out third grandchild, Leah Rose. Mother, father and daughter are all doing well.

I have several stories just about ready to go. One is about listening to the local radio station on Saturdays while doing chores. There’s nothing more interesting than to listen to the heartbeat of small town Canada through the airwaves, especially on a Saturday.

And even though it’s not hunting season, I heard a story while having a trim the other day at the barber shop that is worthy of sharing.

Have a good week. Looks like it’s going to be sunny and warmer.

Posted on April 26, 2013 under Storytelling with 6 comments

Men are, by and large, a stoic lot.  They are not prone to outbursts of emotion and rarely if ever cry.  Some would say that this is both a blessing and a curse.  Maybe we are dour Scots and it’s just not in our DNA to weep in public.  As I get older and the trips to the bathroom and to doctors’ appointments are more frequent than trips to the grocery store, I think about these types of things more and more.  When is the last time you saw a grown man cry?

There is only one sure fire way to bring tears to my eyes and that is cutting onions.  How can something so tasty be so aggravating to prepare?  When my wife is getting ready to prepare the stuffing for the turkey or the gravy that goes with it, my job is to cut the onions and sauté them in the old cast iron frying pan.  When we were sorting out job descriptions, I drew the short straw on this one.

I love music and occasionally I can feel a tear welling up when I hear an inspiring piece of music.  Church music sung by a choir in four parts is probably as close to heaven as I’ll get.  And is there anything more joyous than listening to a symphony orchestra live and in person?  Some current pop music makes me cry but for a whole different reason.

But there is probably nothing more emotional for a man than to witness the birth of his first child …. once he gets over the utter shock of labor and delivery.  I remember carrying my son from the case room to the nursery.  I was overwhelmed as I sang “The Massacre of Glencoe”.  I was quite choked up.  In retrospect, it is hard to believe that the first words your son would hear were about the slaughter of his forefathers.  I carried him in fear and trembling lest I drop him.  A few days later, we took him home. And then it happened.

Back then, my wife was a student and I was earning a meager income in the non-profit sector.  Resources were tight and there were several luxuries we could ill afford, including alcohol.  However, you can rationalize just about anything after the birth of your first-born and I somehow juggled the budget to allow for the purchase of a forty ounce glass bottle of rum.  I was planning a gathering of a few of my friends to toast the continuance of the clan.  I didn’t invite any Campbells.

You hardly need a liquor cabinet when you can’t afford to buy it so I stored the rum under the kitchen sink.  My sleep-deprived wife happened along and went to get some dish soap or Mr. Clean from under the sink.  I was in the adjacent room beholding the miracle of birth.  And that’s when I heard a crash followed by a gasp.  No longer was I marvelling at my four day old son.  Now I was staring in disbelief at the broken rum bottle and its contents gracing the surface of the kitchen floor.

As tears welled in my eyes, I went down the hallway seeking consolation from my son.  I grabbed my Stones collection and let the needle drop on the vinyl and listened to the lyrics to “As Teardrops Fall”.

We will be married thirty one years soon but for a split second on that fateful night so many years ago, our young marriage was sorely tested.  We passed that test. Barely.  The first of many to come!

Posted on April 23, 2013 under Storytelling with 3 comments

Thirty years ago I witnessed the birth of our first child.  I learned a few things from this birth and three more in the years to come and would like to dispense a bit of wisdom to my son in law, who is about to witness labor and delivery for the first time.  Like most other things in life, you learn from your mistakes.  While no one has written the definitive treatise on childbirth from a man’s perspective, let me give you a few do’s and don’ts.  We’ll call it delivery room etiquette.

In the old days, a man’s role in childbirth and delivery was quite simple.  Drop your wife at the front door of the hospital, go back to the office and wait for the hospital to call.  With all of the prenatal classes and the like these days, you would expect that men would have come a long way in providing more than taxi service.  But like other myths (the stork and Santa to name a few), men are still pretty well useless when the going gets tough in the delivery room.

I am fully aware that the Toronto Maple Leafs have not won the Stanley Cup since 1967.  But their current run to make the playoffs is not more important than the birth of your child.  For many men, sports are more important than just about everything else.  At the risk of offending all of my female friends (all three of them), I must admit that I broke one of the cardinal rules of delivery room etiquette during the labor and delivery of our fourth child.  It is certainly not that I had become blasé about childbirth but there happened to be an excellent NFL football game on at the same time.  Knowing that my wife was in the very capable hands of Nurse Jennie, I asked if there might be a television nearby to catch a bit of the gridiron action.  As luck would have it, the maternity ward was not particularly busy that weekend so Jennie arranged for me to use one of the private rooms.  She propped me up on the bed, handed me the remote and told me she would come and get me when things got interesting.  I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the football game or the impending delivery.  I think the New York Giants won the game.

I am no Jim Bob Duggar when it comes to expertise in the delivery room.  He has nineteen children and counting.  I am told that he has changed occupations and now is a fully licensed doula.  Some of you men are probably scratching your heads, having absolutely not an inkling of what a doula is.  A doula is not a sports psychologist but come to think of it, it’s not that far off.   A doula is a labor coach and let me give you one important piece of advice; don’t you dare try and give your wife any advice at the onset of labor.  Sit down, shut up and do what you’re told.  Actually this is pretty good advice for most things in the relationship.

In the heat of the moment, just prior to delivery, your wife or partner may utter some things that you will find quite shocking.  Do not exacerbate the situation by making inane and inappropriate comments yourself.   While participating in one of our births I overheard a conversation in an adjacent delivery room.  In the final throes of a difficult labor, the husband was overheard asking the obstetrician when the couple might resume having sex.  I then witnessed objects flying through the air directed at the skull of the husband followed by a stream of invective that would not seem out of place down at the docks.  Men, don’t ever, ever mention the word sex anywhere near a delivery room.

Some hospitals insist that the husbands sign a waiver in case they require treatment for foot in mouth disease or fainting, along with the removal of foreign objects in the head.

Which brings me to the notion of birth control.  Are you listening, Jim Bob?   I have discovered the perfect birth control device.  Our neighbors recently had twins while their first-born was still in diapers.  I’m not sure if it was garbage day or recycling day but at the end of their driveway, I saw what looked to be the largest condom in the world, filled with disposable diapers.  If that is not enough to invoke a vow of celibacy, I’m not sure what will.

Was it a boy or girl?  We’re not sure.  The Leafs game just went into overtime.