I love television. It’s an actual part of who I am.
My wife hates this. If it were up to her, we wouldn’t own a single TV. Talk about irrational.
When I was a kid, I used to get grounded a lot. Part of that grounding was the relinquishment of TV privileges. But I, like every child, became smarter than my parents.
Tired of missing episodes of Quantum Leap, My Two Dads, and Cheers I set out to take a proactive stance. I started tape recording my favorite shows so that I could listen to them when watching was prohibited, in effect beating the system.
It got to the point where I didn’t even need to see the shows; I knew the main characters on each by heart. I could imagine the entire episode solely from the dialogue. To this day I vividly remember how Sam Malone was confounded when Rebecca asked why more men couldn’t send flowers. He knew Mormons couldn’t dance, but unable to send flowers?
Having said this, don’t mistake my love of television for a willingness to watch crap. My attention span is limited, and my patience almost nil. I need some sort of story. Good dialogue and well created characters help too. Every once in a while I let my guard down though, and the result isn’t one I’m usually proud of – yet here I am outing myself to the world.
While flipping through the channels over the weekend I landed on One Born Every Minute. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, you probably don’t need me to say anything more after I tell you it’s on Lifetime. But just in case the obvious escapes you or you just want me to come out and say it, the show is about childbirth. Yes, childbirth. Sadly, 200+ channels and this was the best I could do on a Sunday evening.
Dear Brad,
We regret to inform you that your Man Card has been revoked and membership canceled. Please discontinue use effective immediately.
Sincerely,
Your Ego
PS – Please check your estrogen levels.
I watched alone for the first few minutes, but eventually the rest of the clan trickled in before the show’s halfway point.
There were three women featured: A woman having her first child, one having her fifth, and the last on her second surrogacy.
The more we watched, the more each of us became involved for our own reasons. Traci remembered the intimacy she felt when carrying our little tax deductions. Kacie watched with a sort of confliction, thinking another kid in the family might not be so bad, but her limited knowledge of the conceiving process creeped her out. My thoughts were somewhere in the middle of longing for another baby to fall asleep on my chest each night and not wanting any part of adding to our grocery bill because the first two betrayed me and no longer fit snuggly on my chest.
“I want two babies,” Brady said, as if we didn’t already know what was on his mind while he watched.
“They’re sleeping in your room, Brady,” Kacie said.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yes, Brady. I’ve had to share a room with you. I’m not sharing a room with them.”
“Yes you are.” I’m really going to have to sign this kid up in debate class. He’s that good.
I looked at Kacie and shook my head, pleading with her to let it go. There was no need to perpetuate the divvying up of our current lack of bedroom space. She grabbed one of the chair pillows from behind her and squeezed the life out of it. She feels we take his side a lot. I wanted to say something poetic, something that a dad totally in love with his baby girl should be able to come up with on the fly. I had nothing.
The show resumed. I let out a heavy exhale. Bullet dodged.
“And a puppy,” Brady finished, adding his own period to the matter, just in case we hadn’t heard him any of the 247 other times he’d brought it up.
As the show progressed, our children saw for the first time a glimpse of what childbirth involves. They heard the screams. They witnessed the tears. They saw, despite Lifetime’s best efforts to blur it out, where babies come from. They were horrified.
Traci and I looked at each of them, knowing their facial expressions would be worth the price of admission. Kacie pulled the pillow even closer to her – trying to balance the maternal feelings with those of disgust. Brady was spread out on the floor, both hands cupped under his chin, propping his head up. His wide eyes didn’t blink and his gaping mouth struggled for something to say.
“Those babies are not coming out of me!” he shouted, staring in my direction, no longer suffering from a lack of words.
The girls laughed. Sure it was funny, but they weren’t the ones being asked to fall on their swords and birth him ready-made companions to play Hot Wheels with. No, this was apparently a job for Daddy…all because I love television more than the air I breathe and couldn’t just turn it off for an hour.
Dear Lifetime,
Why do you have to show such emotionally charged movies and television series that suck me in? Keep up the good work!
Sincerely,
Man Cardless in Dallas
PS – Are you hiring new writers? Please let me know. Thanks.
Now, much like Sam Malone, I find myself wondering what else more men don’t do.
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