I’m not sure why I’m bringing this up now. I think it’s one of those things that’s only funny once a lot of time has passed. Anyway, I forgot to include an important detail when I wrote my birth story last year. I skipped the part about when we arrived at the Labor and Delivery floor in the hospital.

So the elevator doors open (there was no way I was taking the stairs), and Greg and I step into the corridor. It’s quiet except for my labored breathing. We look around and spot the nurse’s station. Except for one person, there’s nobody in sight.

That one person was a 20-something-old **BOY** lounging lazily on a tipped back chair. (Why is my life so difficult?) I have nothing in particular against the Y-generation, or whatever it is that they’re called now. I just knew he was probably listening to rap music on his iPod too.

I grabbed Greg and told him like it was, “That boy is NOT going to be my nurse.” Greg understood my statement as I meant it: a direct demand that he needed to ensure. Here I was about two hours away from giving birth, and I’m surrounded by the XY species. I was even delivering another male, and it was just so…wrong.

Now, lots of women like to have their husband as their labor coach, and that’s great. My husband—God bless him—has….other strengths. As Greg so astutely observed, “Honey, I think it’s just a woman thing.” He tries, but there might something in here of my unwillingness to accept the fact that he understands anything of what’s going on at the moment.

It seems that “the boy” at the nurse’s station was an EMT in training and needed to witness a few births. Turns out he had to wait for someone with perfect Bradley technique or an epidural, as me and the screaming lady before me just weren’t in the mood.

There aren’t any men planning to attend the next birth. Well, I should say that Greg plans to be there, but he understands what to do when an irritated cat with sharp nails is curled up in a corner.