Focus on Pregnancy : First Person / MARTIN MILLER : Pregnancy Can Be Hard on a Guy

Why don’t pregnancy books ever focus on the man? That’s what I want to know. Dozens of pregnancy books are published, and most of them don’t even acknowledge that a man is involved in the little miracle. Even the scant few books that bother to mention the guys leave out some key details. Here’s my trimester-by-trimester attempt to tell guys what the books don’t.

First Trimester

The first shocker was morning sickness. Not hers, because there wasn’t any. Mine. As soon as I heard my wife was pregnant, I got sick to my stomach. And my porcelain adventures weren’t confined to just the morning.

My only relief from the flulike symptoms was to call in sick, take all my meals in bed and watch reruns of “Mannix.” The condition didn’t pass until my wife told me the kid would take out the garbage as soon as he or she could walk. That perked me up.

The first trimester also brought another surprise--fighting. We thought with a new life on the way, we’d be all lovey-dovey. Mostly that was true, except when it came to one hot topic. Whom do you tell and when?

I favored telling my family immediately and telling hers when the baby arrived. Her response? She threatened to hang me. This did not surprise me because the books do warn about the dangers of changing hormones.

As a compromise, we decided to tell everyone simultaneously through a huge multi-family conference call. But when I was organizing the telephone event, my worrywart family wanted to know what the hubbub was about. I said it was nothing bad. Then, almost as an afterthought, I innocently--and I mean innocently--asked “What do you think of the name ‘Leopold’ if it’s a boy?”

Somehow, my family figured it out! My wife got plenty sore about it, too. I told her I can’t help it if my family is smarter than hers.

Second Trimester

I will always remember these few months as ones dominated by fashion. Around the fourth month of her pregnancy, we began to receive all kinds of packages in the mail from friends and relatives. They all contained clothes!

But when I tried them on, they never fit! I guess it was some practical joke on me. But I think I got the last laugh because the outfits looked pretty darned good on our cats. (And cat clothes are expensive, too.)

Meanwhile, my usual wardrobe seemed to be shrinking as well. Then I realized I was giving in to my irrational cravings for pepperoni pizza, ice cream and beer. Actually, that was my normal diet, but I began snarfing down more and more because I had the strange sense that I was eating for two. Well into my second trimester of my new diet, I began to “show.” I didn’t want to obsess over body image, but when people asked if they could put their hand on my belly, I knew it was time to act. I had my wife buy me a couple of new baggy outfits.

Oh, yeah, during this same time, my wife got a lot bigger, too. (But not as big as me.)

Third Trimester

It’s customary during this time to attend birthing classes. We decided to follow custom and attend. Big mistake. Instead of relieving the jitters, it brought them on in a tour de force.

Our instructor asked each of the eight guys in the class to talk about their greatest fear surrounding childbirth. I went first and said I feared poorly framing the blessed event on our video cam. Through my tears, I blubbered to the class: “It’s not like I’ll be able say, ‘Hey, honey, let’s shoot that one again.’ ” It was a great relief to finally talk about it and feel the support of other men who could truly understand the hell I was going through.

But then the next guy went. I expected him to have the same fear, but he had a much different hell than me. He was worried he wouldn’t get his wife to the delivery room in time! Wow! This had never occurred to me, and it became my new greatest fear.

Then the next guy said he was nervous he’d faint. I hadn’t thought of that either, and then that became my new greatest fear.

By the time we finished going around the room, I had seven new No. 1 fears. Hell got pretty crowded that night, let me tell you.

The 12- to 14-Hour Moment of Truth

Much is made of natural childbirth. Some say it’s healthier, some imply you’re a better person if you can tough it out. But I figured I’m not that healthy anyway and am comfortable not being a very good person. So I wanted an epidural.

Now, I know centuries ago, farmer John boiled hot water, laid down a bed of clean towels and didn’t blink an eye as his wife brought a “new farmhand” into the world. Well, I’m no farmer John. Put a plow in front of me, and I’d say “What is that thing for?”

But once we arrived at the hospital, things went horribly, horribly wrong. I politely asked for an epidural, and they said no. My elaborate birthing plan came down like a house of card. I felt utterly alone and lost, but no one seemed to care about my heartbreak.

They say you really find out something about yourself at a time like that, and I did. I panicked. Sweat shot out of all my pores like water gushing out of the Hoover Dam. Then, I started hyperventilating.

Luckily, my wife had paid attention during those classes. She coached my breathing for what must have been 12 hours. She was a trooper and really brought me back from the brink. I couldn’t have done it without her.

Oh, yeah, sometime in there, my wife gave birth to our son.