She's Got Brass Ovaries, My Friend. Believe That

Gaea forgive me, but despite the best efforts of your Womb Warriors -- who have told their delivery sagas so loudly and so often in the nation's public spaces that nearly everyone with functioning ears can now deliver a child and cut an episiotomy with the skill of a first-year medical resident -- I remain unimpressed with the whole childbirth extravaganza. Yes, yes, yes, the head is bigger than the opening. Yes, that's got to hurt. If men had to do it, .... Yadda, yadda, yadda. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.

Or that was my attitude before this. Now, I am impressed.

Her husband, the guy who was out drinking with his buddies when all this happened, I'm guessing, not so much.

That's because a woman who performs her own Caesarian with a kitchen knife couldn't possibly be married to a wussy, little guy like me. In fact, when you think about it, that's the least likely of all possibilities.

A woman who performs her own Caesarian marries a man who pisses testosterone and shits machismo, the kind of guy who works the third shift, hammering sheet metal with heavy machinery and at times, when the guys need a giggle, the anvil-like ridge of his Neanderthalian brow. He's a former high school jock-stud who entertains himself now flicking lighted matches at his toddlers on those nights when no amount of aluminum foil on the antennae will bring in Cops on his black-and-white. He's King Hard.

He's not impressed with her feats of derring-do. This guy comes home to find his wife has performed a self-Caesarian, and all he has to say in response is, "Does this mean you did or didn't get around to making dinner?"

But that's not me. Me? As I said, I'm impressed.