AS a father who recently witnessed the birth of my second beautiful son, I've come to have an even greater appreciation for the percentage of the population responsible for firing out these screaming little pooping machines the world over.
Yes, mothers, that population is you. I don't know who you ticked off along the way to earn this lot in life but when it comes to the whole baby process, you ladies got screwed. Literally, I suppose, but that's not what I'm getting at here. I'm talking about the division of labour between the man and the woman - or the woman and the woman and the sperm of the astronaut or whomever, I'm not here to discriminate - and how it is patently unfair how much of the really hard and downright excruciating work falls to you.
From my perspective, here's how the whole process breaks down in terms of the burden falling on each partner:
Phase 1 of the baby process involves two people coming together to soberly and knowingly decide to bring beautiful new life into the world. Of course, Phase 1 can also involve a drunk sorority girl and a frat house DJ coming together for six minutes on a slippery bean bag chair, but that's not the baby process I'll be talking about here. I'm talking about two people with so much love that they decide to create another little human to share it with.
When that decision is first made it's a 50-50 partnership, both parties pushing all their chips in and deciding to make a baby. In fact, once the actual business of baby making commences - amusingly code-named "trying" by those couples who have been at it for more than a few months - it can seem more like a 90-10 partnership with the man doing most of the work, depending on the type and frequency of the trying they're doing.
"Hey baby, was that a yawn? Can I get you a magazine down there? Don't worry, I promise I'll finish before Downton Abbey comes on."
Once the stick turns blue, however, it's back to a 50-50 split as both of you share equally in the excited planning of life with a new life. You're Paul McCartney and John Lennon, united but unique equals ready to use all of your immense talents to create something truly magnificent.
Either of you would do anything to bring that baby into the world happy and healthy. Either of you would take a bullet for that kid if you had to. You'd even marry Heather Mills if the situation was dire enough.
Then barf happens, and the expectant mother may turn into a bloaty, cranky zombie.
It's here that the split starts to change. Now the father is Garfunkel and the mother is Simon. Sure you may sing to her belly with your pretty voice and wacky hair but she writes all of the songs.
Then that belly starts to grow, weird things start to happen to her body and it becomes obvious which partner is in for a really rough ride in this endeavour. Now she's Beyonce and you're the rest of Destiny's Child. You may pretend you're a big shot, basking in her radiant glow while mumbling "I'm a survivor, I'm not gon' give up," but everyone knows that she's the real survivor and without her none of this would be possible.
Then it's time for the birth, and it's here that she becomes the greatest in the world. She's a force of will that can't be stopped. She's Michael Jordan. And you, no matter how much help you think you're giving, compared to what she's going through, you're not Scottie Pippen. Your not even Dennis Rodman. No - you're the ball boy, mostly just watching from the bench and offering drinks, occasionally joining the action only to clean a wet spot off the floor. The split here is 99 per cent mother and zero per cent partner, with a margin of error of one per cent. Bless you, mothers - you know you've been through an ordeal when the fun, easy part of the process is at the end when the doctor sews up the C-section or even puts stitches right into your . . . sorry, I'm not going to finish that thought. Once again, bless you, mothers.
After the birth, inexperienced fathers may think it's their time to fully pay back the mother for all that she's been through.
It's not. Just FYI - you will never pay her back. In the hours and days after the birth you may change a diaper, get the kid to burp, even rock him to sleep so the mother can rest. Yes, the spitup will find your favourite hockey jersey and yes, the crying will wake you up at ungodly hours too, but that crying means much different things for the mother. It means she needs to attach that baby to her body.
It means that she needs to do that again four hours later.
And two hours after that. And all day every day. You can offer a foot massage and then go get some sleep. She's hoping she doesn't get her nipple bitten off.
In the end, the partnership is clear - you're earth, she's air. Be happy to offer a foundation to build on but know that she fills that little miraculous little blob with life every second of the day.
