by Trent Lorcher

Created on: June 23, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

The contractions began on July 2. "A few short hours," I said, " and we'll be holding our son."

My wife glared. I continued to talk. She threw a shoe. I stopped talking.

A night and a day crawled by. July 4th approached. As midnight struck, the patriotic baby swam in its amniotic freedom, displaying its stubborn independence, unwilling to give in to the natural forces compelling its removal from the womb.

Months earlier my wife decided to birth naturally: no drugs, no hospital, no doctor; just a midwife, a friend, and me in our two story townhouse. Now, I was the one needing the drugs, and the hospital, and the doctor.

I settled for the bathroom. I sat on the toilet, rocking back and forth gently, arms folded across my waist, and sobbed.

I knelt.

Two more hours rolled by "How much longer?" I whispered to the midwife.

"Babies come out when they're ready," she replied.

"Could you be a little more specific?"

"Your wife needs you."

Six o'clock arrived. "It's the fourth of July," I pondered, "I can't wait to watch baseball with my son. In future years we'll snack on apple pie together, scarf down some hot dogs-"

My wife's scream brought me back to the present.

I felt helpless. My wife, in pain, yelling; the midwife telling her to relax; me, wondering if Wal Mart sold red, white, and blue diapers.

My wife's screams got louder and more frequent. I bought all the neighbors flag-colored ice cream that afternoon.

Eight O'clock approached. I snatched seconds of sleep between contractions. I dreamed of hotdogs and apple pie and my wife shrieking.

I woke up. She was shrieking.

"I'm coming." I yelled.

"It's coming" yelled the midwife.

"What!" I yelled.

"The baby!" the midwife yelled.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" my wife yelled.

She positioned herself at the base of the stairwell, right arm around my neck, right leg on the ground, left leg on the third step. I squatted, back against the wall, hamstrings taut, shoulders tense.

Sweat. Blood. Tears.

"Push!" said the midwife.

"I'm trying!" cried my wife.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!" I yelled.

"I can see its head," said the midwife.

"Where?" said my wife.

"Probably on its shoulders," I quipped.

The midwife glared.

Sweat. Blood. Tears.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" yelled my wife.

"Push!" yelled the midwife.

"You're doing great." I reassured

"Push!"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"You're doing great!"

"One more push!"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"It's coming out!"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"Waaaaaaah! Waaaaaaaah!"

My son, the patriotic baby, celebrated our nation's birth with an explosion of sound and color, unrivaled by any firework lit that night.

Several Independence Day's have come and gone, none more memorable.

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