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When my husband, Rick, and I discovered I was pregnant for the first time 14 years ago, we did what all responsible, reasonably intelligent parents-to-be do: We enrolled in a childbirth class. I don't know why that's the responsible, intelligent thing to do; women have been giving birth for centuries without classes telling them how to do it. Besides, the birth's going to happen anyway, whether we learn how it happens or not.

But, that's the way things are done in America in the 21st century. The medical establishment and 3,000 magazine articles insist babies can't possibly navigate the seas of childbirth unless their parents spend six weeks practicing for the event, so who was I to argue?

My husband fully supported attending childbirth classes, but not because he was overly concerned about my physical well-being or that of our unborn child (he was concerned, just not overly so). Rick was confident I could handle the event without too much difficulty—for him, anyway.

No, the real reason Rick wanted to attend our childbirth class was because it was held in the hospital. And my husband loves hospitals. To him, a high-tech hospital is Disneyland, Mt. Everest, and the Super Bowl rolled into one. Show him a crash cart or a defibrillator, and he almost swoons in ecstasy. He tenderly gazes into the screens and monitors and listens to the tiny blips with a look of reverence on his face. If Rick ever looked at me like that, I'd meet him at the door in Saran Wrap every night for the rest of my life.

He realized what the birth of our first child would mean when we went for the sonogram. I lay on the table while the technician glopped gel on my belly and prodded around with her magic wand. Rick held my hand, and together we eagerly watched the computer screen. "There it is!" the technician said suddenly. "See, there's the head, here's an arm, and here are the legs. Can't quite tell if it's a boy or a girl … "

I looked at that odd-shaped blob (the sonogram, not my husband) and thought, I don't know what that is, but it's mine. It was a wonderfully maternal feeling.

At that tender moment, I realized Rick and I were looking at the same picture but were seeing two very different things. I saw my child for the first time, admiring one of God's greatest miracles. Rick saw a marvelous example of medical technology and wondered how the machine worked. Sure enough, on the way out to the car, Rick asked, "How does that thing work, anyway?"

So the thought of spending one evening a week for six weeks at the hospital practically made him drool in anticipation. One of the classes featured a tour of the delivery room, with its fetal monitors and prenatal equipment. Another class offered a videotape of a real live birth in all its gory—I mean glory. Rick hadn't known pregnancy would be this much fun.

We attended the classes and dutifully practiced breathing. I hee-hee-hee-hoo'd until I was blue, with Rick standing near to make sure I didn't huh-huh-huh instead. Actually, Rick made an excellent childbirth coach—kind and sympathetic, but still firm and focused. I didn't like him very much.

Our careful plans went askew when the doctor decided to induce labor, which meant I didn't start off having small, barely perceptible contractions. My contractions were immediately ten minutes apart and quite perceptible. I pleasantly told Rick he could stuff everything we'd learned in childbirth class someplace. I even developed my own breathing technique: "Here comes another on-n-n-n-e … m-m-m-m-m-m … uh-uh-uh-uh … owwwwwww!"

"What are you doing?" Rick demanded. "How can I coach you if you do it the way you want to do it?"

I briefly considered pulling his bottom lip over his head, which Carol Burnett describes as the closest men can come to understanding the pain of childbirth. But that wasn't an option, because by then I'd decided I'd never touch him again as long as I lived, which I figured wouldn't be long anyway.

Finally, after 12 grueling hours of strong contractions that left Rick numb with fatigue, they wheeled me to the delivery room. But reality wasn't like the videotape. There was more confusion, more hustling back and forth. Why was the doctor shouting at the nurse? What was going on?

I was too exhausted to figure it out. But Rick was there. My firm, focused husband who could figure out anything mechanical or electrical with his logical engineer's brain. He would take care of me and the baby. He knew what was going on even if I didn't. That fact gave me much-needed peace.

The birth was complicated, but our firstborn son came out squalling and squirming and healthy. I nursed him, Rick held him, and then they took him to the nursery so the doctor could tend to me. Under a cozy pile of heated blankets (which has to be one of the best parts of childbirth), I drifted into a state of exhilarated fatigue.

What an incredible experience Rick and I had shared. What a wonderful … hey, where was Rick? I raised my head enough to find him standing near the foot of the bed, just behind the doctor's left shoulder. I could tell from his frown of concentration he was having a great time.

Some things never change, I thought.

Thank God.

Rhonda Wheeler Stock, a TCW regular contributor, lives with her family in Kansas.

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