Baby-making is messy work. I’m not speaking of the conception end of things (although that can get pretty messy as well) but to the actual birth process itself. Wow.

There’s something about being on the maternity floor that makes a guy feel…well, guilty. Sitting in the waiting area and listening to those nurses talking about things like cervix softeners, pucker strings, vaginal balloons, and mucus plugs. Yuck. Speaking on behalf of all fathers everywhere, I’m sorry you girls have to deal with all this stuff.

But it’s not like us men don’t suffer as well.

When a woman decides on motherhood, it’s sex, sex, sex for weeks, maybe months; for a guy, this is the equivalent of having died and gone to heaven. And then one day the little pee-stick turns blue and WHAM: instant shutdown, and you’re faced with a months-long dry spell filled with cold showers and complete abstinence the likes of which only a monk can contemplate. 

The only date night you can look forward to is with Rosie Palm and her five sisters; you’d better not even think about looking at your wife again until the milk is dried up, the boobs have shrunk, the incision’s healed, and all body parts and internal organs have returned to their proper size and position.

And then, in all likelihood, the process will repeat itself, forever and ever. It hardly seems fair to us poor schmucks on the receiving end.

But that’s life, I suppose.

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