You can always tell your wife is in labor because she makes labor sounds like “Let’s go” and “You need to turn off the Xbox now.” If you listen closely to the wombish area, you’ll also hear her say “stop wasting time” and “I don’t want to deliver in the taxi.”
Columbia Presbyterian’s Washington Heights location offers you a great view. If you look 160 blocks south you’ll see the part of Manhattan you wish the hospital was in.
We chose Columbia-Presbyterian because their delivery rooms are state-of-the-art and spacious. The rooms at St. Luke’s and St. Vincent’s only have an abacus and just enough room for you and half a nurse.
$300,000 worth of high-tech beeping equipment that you need six years of school to use, yet they still don’t know how to spell “maintenance” correctly.
Our OB/GYN has been doing her thing since before I was born, yet hospital bureaucrats make her feel like a TGI Friday’s waitress by forcing her to wear this humiliating badge.
This cart contains all the magical ingredients for an epidural. A man will look at it with indifference, but a woman in labor will say “put all of that in my spine right now.”
Delivery is much faster the second time because the first child left hints. After the birth you are removed from the nice high-tech room and placed in the less nice recovery room. Mommy gets a nice bed and daddy gets this Saudi torture device.
Baby gets put in the same kind of plastic bin I used to store tortilla chips in when I was a busboy at El Torito – hence the expression “Doesn’t he look like a pile of tortilla chips?”
While your wife and child are recuperating you can take time out to capture egregious spelling errors in the neighborhood.
…and wonder when exactly your wife had her affair with Dolph Lundgren.