Men can be very silly sometimes. In an effort to please, we men can end up in the greatest of messes. Men know women love to hear about babies. So in a male’s excited enthusiasm to announce his friend’s wife has just delivered, he foolishly, and some would say unwittingly, leaves himself open for attack. Like a rookie soldier walking through the quicksand laden jungle he hasn’t seen the danger that is there before his very eyes.
Then it happens. Like a nest that is unguarded as the swooping eagle raids, he is helpless. The question every man is petrified of. The question that he knows he cannot answer. The question, that is on a par with, an articulated lorry with no brakes, bounding in his direction as he stands on the edge of a cliff. The question is asked; “What weight was the baby?!”
In this paused moment of time a litany of scenario’s arise. Will I pretend I didn’t hear? Will I lie and make up a weight? This is happening as he pre-empts the next possible question. He is desperately trying to remember whether his friend said was it a boy or a girl that had been born. It’s all too much to remember, especially as he was taking in how to get to that pub on the corner of Wicklow Street to wet the baby’s head. Heaven forbid his wife/girlfriend should ask what sex the baby was!
On the other hand, doesn’t the fairer sex love to compare and compete? When “Mrs. Doesn’t think” (this is no reflection on her mind, but more-so due to the fact that she is married to a Doofus) meets the lovely lady who has given birth, a week later to congratulate all around. That is when the fun starts.
“So what weight was she? Six pounds seven ounces? When my Martin was born he was seven three”
The new mother not to be beaten will fight back as she pours more tea and gratefully thanks “Mrs. Doesn’t think” one more time for the basket of nappies and sudocreme.
“Very hard labour though”, she will say shaking her head as if she doesn’t want to give all the details. “Nearly six hours”, she will say just as quickly, nodding this time, awaiting the sympathy that she expects is coming. God bless her innocence. For all she gets in reply is;
“Oh sure I was twelve hours in before they would even consider an epidural!”
Mrs. New born mother sees her chance to respond and dives in like a bride in a wedding shop sale.
“Oh do they do epidurals at your hospital? I didn’t even have one!”
And so the rivalry will go on with the pain thresholds being bounced off morning sickness and oxygen against stitches!
All of this happens on a Saturday afternoon over a friendly cup of tea…
The next day, Mr. doesn’t think, awakens at lunch time. All the worse for having one too many at the boys celebration party. He is awoken as a pink baby grow is flung at his head. Few words are spoken. The most damning being, “It was a boy she had!”
Mr. Doesn’t think closes his eyes again, still smarting from the metal stud dancing on his eyebrow cursing storks the world over. In a non conciliatory tone, graciously offered by his wife as she slams the bedroom door he hears her say, “I got a chicken for dinner.”
He calls out after her,
"What weight was it?”