Picture this: I’m in early labor, breathing through contractions while the nurse helps me settle in. I’m already in pain but doing my best to stay calm and focused. Just when I’m trying to center myself, the door swings open—and in walks my husband, rolling a suitcase behind him and carrying a tote bag like he’s checking into a hotel.
For a moment, I’m relieved. Finally, I think, he remembered the hospital bag. But instead, he grins like a kid on Christmas morning and proudly announces, “Brought the entertainment station!” Before I can process that, he starts unloading an Xbox, a mini-screen, a controller, a headset, an energy drink, and two massive bags of chips. He then turns to the nurse—while I’m contracting—and asks where he can plug everything in.
And just when I think it can’t get any worse, his best friend strolls in with a Slurpee and a bag of fast food, ready to join the “party.” He looks at me, mid-contraction, and says, “Yo, she’s only like 3 centimeters, right? We’ve got time.” Meanwhile, I’m gripping the hospital bed rails, wondering how this became a gaming hangout instead of a labor room.
At that moment, between pain, disbelief, and pure annoyance, I realized something important: birth plans don’t just apply to moms—they should apparently apply to clueless husbands, too. Let’s just say the entertainment station didn’t stay plugged in for long.
