From Peter Pan Man Dan to Dad

The day I became a dad

Nine months feels like a long time when you’re preparing for one event, especially if it’s your first time experiencing that event. When things are new, our little brains have to think more, which works to slow down time, making it seem like you’re living at half-speed, like you’re running through mud, or stuck on a never-ending flight next to some gross-ass dude who brought Shake Shack on the airplane and assumes other people can’t smell his post-burger farts.

[Note: All writing experts say to always include at least one fart joke in the first paragraph, so I’d say I fucking nailed it!]

Meredith and I were entering the 39th week of her pregnancy. Our little baking buddy seemed like he was going to take his sweet ass time coming out, so we were thinking that he’d go very close to his due date, July 21, the full 40 weeks.

We were feeling ready for his arrival, so the anticipation was killing us, time moving even slower as we got closer to the 21st. We had all the baby accessories and gear ready to go: the bassinet, a closet full of onesies and swaddles, breastfeeding pillows, bottles, pacifiers, sterilization machines. We had boppies and Mamaroos, a Peg Perego car seat/stroller combo, and other devices it seems like Dr. Seuss had named. We had read the books, taken the classes, collected advice from friends willing to share, etc.

We just needed the baby.

I kept telling anyone who got stuck listening to me talk about the pregnancy that it was starting to feel like preparing for an exam: at some point, you get sick of studying and just want to take the fucking test, even if you might get a B-minus.

Over the weekend of July 10th, I somewhat joylessly engaged in the last batch of Peter Pan Man Dan activities as if I was taking my old, childish life for one last spin. I slept in. I went for long jogs. I watched an ungodly amount of sports—Italy vs. England UEFA soccer final, Wimbledon final, Game 3 of the NBA Finals. I thought it was symbolic that they were all “Finals”. I drove to Trader Joe’s just so I could buy a bag of buffalo beef jerky. I FaceTimed with friends and cracked dick jokes. I started a one-week-free Starz trial so I could watch Once Upon A Time in Hollywood and White Men Can’t Jump. [I watched Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, but didn’t get to White Men Can’t Jump.] Hell, I had so much free time that I ran a few fantasy football mock drafts. Fantasy football mock drafts sort of epitomize having too much time to kill.

I had gotten it all out of my system. I was ready, or felt ready.

Well, in the early hours of Tuesday, July 13, 2021, I got my wish.

At 3 AM, Meredith shook me awake. “Dan, we’ve got to go to the hospital. My water just broke,” she said.

The exam had started.

“Really? Oh shit. Okay,” I said. I was, “Oh shitting” because all the stats we had read said that water breaking pre-labor only occurred ten percent of the time. So much for that. I grabbed a few things—pants, a toothbrush, my glasses and contact gear, a phone charger, a Chris Farley T-shirt—and tossed them into my hospital bag as Meredith grabbed hers, which had been packed for weeks since she’s better at life than I am.

Our dog, Maple, woke from her deep doggy slumber, sensing that something was different, that we were all stirring several hours before she usually got breakfast. She looked at me with confused eyes, half-expecting me to slip her a snack.

“You’re going to be a big sister soon,” I told her while rubbing her soothingly soft ears. 

“As long as he gives me treats, I’m cool with whatever shit you throw my way,” Maple said with those same eyes since she can’t speak with her mouth.

We piled into my 2005 Subaru Outback Impreza. I had been thinking of getting a new car recently, mainly to have something safer for the baby, but also because the Subaru had a blown gasket that would cost more to fix than what the car was worth. But I was sentimentally attached to the car. It had served me well over the last decade and a half, carrying me to and through many momentous life events. It was with me when I found out my dad had ALS. It drove me back to Salt Lake City to help care for him. Then back to Los Angeles after he passed so I could begin pursuing screenwriting. Then all around town as I chased those dreams. It was a good car, dependable, consistent, a staple. So I kept it. Now it was driving us to the hospital so Meredith could deliver our first child.

We dropped Maple off with my in-laws at the AirBNB they were renting a few blocks away, and then were off.

We hit nothing but green lights all the way there, which I took to be a good sign. I mean, it was 3 in the morning, so I probably would’ve run any red that popped up. If I got pulled over, I would’ve just frantically yelled, “My wife’s water just broke! I’ve got to get her to the fucking hospital pronto,” at the poor officer. Sort of always wanted to do that. But that wasn’t necessary.

We pulled the car up to Providence St. John’s hospital off of Santa Monica Blvd. and into the valet area. That’s right, they had a valet. Fucking fancy I know. Welcome to giving birth in Los Angeles! It was clear to the attendants that Meredith’s water had broken, so we were met with a mixture of concerned looks and congratulations as we delicately waddled Meredith into the hospital’s atrium lobby.

We got in an elevator and went to the third floor, up to the labor and delivery wing.

As we went, millions of things started going through my head, everything from, I hope this goes well, to, I wonder if I’ll be home before my free Starz trial ends so I can watch White Men Can’t Jump? You’re told that your life is going to change when you have a kid. You nod and say, “Yeah, I know,” but you don’t truly know until you’re experiencing it. It’s like when you’re going on a vacation and picture what the place will be like in your head, but then when you get there you realize it’s completely different than you imagined. The dominant thought was related to the fact that we were about to become fucking parents. This was happening. We were going to have a child, a little buddy, very soon.

“This is so exciting,” I said, as my eyes got misty.

“I know. We can do this right? I can do this?” said Meredith as I pulled her in for a hug. She’s a tough girl, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need some confirmation that she’s amazing and can do anything.  

“Of course you can. You’re my Warrior Bear,” I said, proving that I was the most supportive partner in the history of partners. They’ll probably put a statue depicting my supportiveness in front of St John’s. “We got this,” I added with as much confidence as I could muster.  “You’ve got this.”

Ding. We arrived on the third floor, where tired new or expecting parents wandered the halls like zombies while nurses scurried about making things easier and better for everyone.

A nurse who looked and sounded just like Frances McDormand’s character from Fargo checked us in. We’ll call her Frances. I sort of wanted her to take her mask off just so I could confirm that it wasn’t the actress researching for a role as a delivery nurse. Frances ran through what seemed like a thousand questions—so many that I was worried that she’d still be asking them while Meredith pushed the baby out. She sprinkled “Hun” and “Tough Cookie” and “Okey-Dokeys” and other Midwestern-sounding colloquialisms in as she asked the questions.

“Okey-Dokey. What time did your water break then, Hun?” she asked.

“Around three AM,” said Meredith.

“And how about contractions? Are you having any, Hun?”

“None yet, I don’t think. I might be though,” said Meredith.

“What level of pain are you in right now then, Hun? Zero to ten. Ten being excruciating.”

“Probably around a zero to one,” said Meredith.

“Wow, you’re a tough cookie,” said Frances.

After the question barrage and a cervical inspection, it was determined that Meredith had only dilated about one centimeter and that they’d start her on IV medication that would speed up that dilation.

“We’re going to get your contractions stronger and longer, Hun,” said Frances as she hooked up the medicine pouch to the IV rack.

I wanted to make a “stronger and longer” dick joke since I tend to increase the crass joke frequency when I’m anxious—my medicine if you will—but I refrained, showing dad-like maturity already. It generally seemed like this wasn’t the place for even light levity. The delivery room is where you focus all your energy and attention on survival. I half-expected there to be a “No Fart Jokes” sign on the wall.

“What time are we looking at for the delivery?” I asked instead of saying the dick joke, trying to sound like a real person.

“Probably late evening, but could be into the early morning,” said Frances.

“Wow, that’s a long time from now,” I said, slowly coming to terms with the fact that I might not get to watch White Men Can’t Jump in the comfort of my own home any time soon. My life really was going to be different.  

“It’s not like in the movies where the water breaks and you race in and go into labor straight away,” added Frances.

“I write the movies. So that’s really up to me,” I wanted to say like I was some sort of screenwriting god.

“Got it,” I actually said.

“Any more questions for me?” said Frances.

“Yeah. Are you Frances McDormand in disguise prepping for a role?” I wanted to ask. But instead, we shook our heads and waited for the next step.

The next step was waiting for Meredith to start dilating to 10 centimeters, and for her contractions to get “stronger and longer,” as Frances put it. “But it should go smoothly. Everything is normal, on track,” she said. “And bonus, it would appear the uterus is cooperating, Hun.”

I did a little fist pump after that, marking the first time in my life I’ve done a fist pump after someone said, “The uterus is cooperating.”

Frances showed us into another room, the place where the actual delivery would take place. It was bigger than I was expecting, nice even. I mean, it wasn’t the Four Seasons, but I was pleasantly surprised. Fuck, it even had a westward-facing view of Santa Monica. If the marine layer wasn’t so thick this time of year, we probably could’ve seen the Pacific Ocean through the palm tree-littered skyline.

Thus began the waiting period. The cafeteria opened so I grabbed a coffee. Then, we called or texted our families to let them know that we would be having a baby by the end of the day if everything went to plan.

I was frantically trying to get hold of my mom back in Salt Lake City. But she has trouble getting to sleep—sometimes staying up all night—so she often turns her phone off and snoozes through the mornings. Her phone was currently off.

I wanted her here though. My mom had battled through 136 chemotherapies so she could be present for moments like seeing her grandchildren be born. I wanted to give her that moment, pay her back for all she had been through to stay my mom—for all the energy, love, and resources that went into giving me a chance at a good life. With my dad super dead from Lou Gehrig’s disease, she always said that she had to love all their grandchildren for both of them. She had kept that promise with her other seven grandchildren. But I was her favorite child by a long shot, since I’m generally more likable than my asshole siblings, so my child instantly mattered the most, I assumed.

I checked to see if anyone else from my family had texted back. No one yet. It was still too early. I did receive an email from the store buybuy Baby with the subject line: “You’ve got the baby we’ve got the deals.” Fuck, did soulless corporations know our baby was coming before my family did? Were their ad-targeting algorithms so good that they predicted when my wife was going into labor? Or was the email just a coincidence?

Eventually, my mom called back. She was just getting up. She booked a flight and headed to the airport to fly out to try to be there, or in the proximity, for the birth.

Meanwhile, back in our room, they brought in some disgusting hospital breakfast that Meredith couldn’t eat because of all the medication she would likely be on, so my fat ass scarfed it down. I generally took note of how worthless I felt in the delivery room—throughout the whole pregnancy really—like I wasn’t adding anything or helping in any way, that I was just some pot-bellied lug there sucking down hospital bacon with a plethora of dick jokes on the tip of my tongue, giggling along to funny phrases like Bevis and Butthead might. Meredith was doing all the hard work, the MVP of our lives.

Meredith’s contractions were sort of getting “stronger and longer” just like Frances had suggested, but they were still tolerable, somewhere in the “3” pain level.

So since we had some time to kill still, we started dicking around some, finally making a few jokes, trying to get them all out of our system before shit took a turn for the more serious. I took selfies of me smiling and looking relaxed while Meredith pretended to struggle in the background, and sent it to the fam with a “Labor is super easy!” caption. I had picked up a bag of Doritos from the cafeteria when I had done the coffee run earlier. So we made a goof Doritos commercial where I lifted the bag into the frame and said, “This childbirth is sponsored by Doritos. Contract your flavors”.  

Soon, Frances’s shift was over, so they brought in the day nurse—a sweet and calm, blonde-haired British woman with a gentle tone and touch. I couldn’t see her face under her mask, but her accent reminded me of Princess Diana, so we’ll call her Princess Di.

Frances filled Princess Di in on Meredith.

“Man, Meredith is one tough cookie. So far everything is extraordinarily average. And that’s not an insult, Meredith. Average is great in these situations. We want average,” said Frances.

“Great, I’m a pro at being average,” I said, dusting Doritos crumbs off my fingers, feeling like maybe I should just tuck myself into a corner and shut the fuck up for the rest of the day. I eased back toward one.  

Princess Di took over.

She gave us a little preview of what the next few hours would look like. We would continue monitoring the contractions, watch their frequency and intensity. Once Meredith felt some “rectal pressure,” it would be time to check to see the dilation progression.  

“Rectal pressure,” I wanted to parrot back like Bevis and Butthead from my corner.

Meredith was being such a “tough cookie” and the contractions were mild enough at this point that she was toying with the idea of not getting an epidural unless the pain got intolerable. I—being a pussy who takes Tylenol even if I sense a whiff of a headache—was pushing for her to get one.

“Well, I will say this: childbirth is the pain in which all other pain is measured against, and there’s no prize or benefit to not getting one,” said Princess Di, sounding so delightfully pleasant and tranquil in the process.

Around noon, the contractions legitimately did start to get stronger and longer. There was a small monitor next to Meredith’s hospital bed tracking the baby’s heartbeat and her contractions. The green squiggles denoting the contractions were spiking every couple of minutes now.

Meredith was now in an incredible amount of pain. She had moved from being a casual zero to a full-on ten. She uttered her first and only, “Fuck! Why did we do this?” around 12:30.

Once the contractions got so bad Meredith was unable to talk or breathe, she decided it was time to get the epidural.

The anesthesiologist came in, hooked it into her back, and Meredith instantly felt relief.

Once the epidural was in, I decided that I’d sneak back down to the cafeteria to grab some more coffee and some lunch. I’m a fainter, not to brag. Hell, I fainted just a few months earlier when my surgeon removed the stitches in my belly after my gallbladder surgery. There was some growing concern amongst Meredith and Princess Di that I’d be fainting during labor, and that’s the last fucking thing they needed. So I figured some sugar and food would protect against that.

I ordered a chicken sandwich and grabbed a pack of Tropical Skittles because they reminded me of the existence of vacation, and sometimes when life is getting heavy and too real you need to be reminded of that.

I was admittedly feeling anxious, stressed, worried about everything going exactly right during labor, then everything to come after it. I mean, I was about to be a father. The heaviness of the change I was going to be experiencing was weighing on me. I was scared. I was scared I wouldn’t be a great dad like my dad was. I was scared I wouldn’t be patient enough to get through the rough infant stage. I was scared how all of this was going to affect my ability to write, and in turn, impact the pursuit of my dreams. I was scared I wouldn’t be selfless enough to put someone else’s needs above my own.

But while I was waiting for my chicken sandwich to cook, I looked down at the ground, and gleaming back at me was a penny, heads up.

“Oh man, that’s amazing,” I said to myself, probably making others around me think I was referring to the Skittles and not the penny.

The penny was “amazing” because when my father was on his death bed, he said that every time we found a penny, it was him thinking of us—sort of a way to make it feel like he was still around after he was gone. It sounds cheesy, but it’s shocking how often I’d spot a penny when I needed my dad the most. And I felt like I needed him now. When he was alive, he’d always comfort us with an “I love you” and an “It’s going to be okay,” instantly making us feel better, calmer, more in control.

So finding the penny instantly reminded me that—despite all the things to be worried and scared about—it was going to be okay. After all, being nervous and scared also shows that you care. I was scared because I cared about doing a good job. I cared about being a good dad. I cared about giving my son a good life.

“I love you, Dan. It’s going to be okay,” I heard my dad say in my head as I picked up the penny and popped it into my pocket, where I keep several other pennies I’d collected at important moments throughout the years.

Now calmed by the magical penny, I grabbed my chicken sandwich, a fresh coffee, and my pack of Skittles and headed back up to Meredith.

She was admittedly more relaxed with the epidural, but the contraction frequency continued to increase—spikes every two minutes or so. It was clear we were getting closer and closer to labor.

My mom had arrived at LAX by now. Meredith’s mom was heading to pick her up, and then would drop her off at her hotel. She wanted to be with me, with us, in the delivery room, but with Covid they were only allowing one additional person in. I was that plus one. But after my mom got settled at her hotel, she came to the hospital anyway, hanging out outside, pacing around the facility.

“I know I can’t be up there, but I just want you to feel my presence,” said my mom as she paced. And I did.

With the Dad Penny in my pocket and my mom pacing outside, I felt supported, loved, like Meredith and I weren’t in this alone.

“You’re now at eight centimeters,” said Princess Di after her latest cervical inspection. “We’re closing in on it.” She explained that Meredith would continue feeling increased pressure on her bowels. “You’ll feel like you’re about to poop a bowling ball, to put it rather bluntly,” added Princess Di.

“Hey, I’m the one who makes the fart and poop jokes around here,” I wanted to say.

But instead, I took a chug of my coffee and popped a couple of Skittles in my mouth like they were Xanax.

At 7, Princess Di’s shift was over. “I’m sorry to abandon you so late in the game. I hope to be here for all my patient’s births, as I grow rather attached. But you’ll be in good hands with your new nurse.”

She gestured over to the door to reveal our new nurse. To our delight, it was Frances, our old nurse. That’s how long we had been there. Frances had gone home, eaten, probably popped on a home makeover show on Netflix, slept, showered, eaten again, and was back. 

“Hi there, Hun. How you holding up?” she asked.

“Good. But definitely ready to get this baby out,” said Meredith.

“Bet the little guy is ready to come out,” said Frances.

“Could you sort of walk us through the next couple of hours? Bullet points?” I asked.

“Well, the contractions will get even closer in frequency, then when she’s at ten centimeters, Meredith is going to push like hell, then you’ll have a baby,” Frances casually explained.

Meredith’s OBGYN, Dr. Bohn, arrived to perform the delivery around 7:15. At 7:28, Meredith started to push like hell.

Now, I thought there was going to be a whole team of doctors, nurses, and specialists present for the pushing, but it was just Meredith, Frances, Dr. Bohn, and me. I also thought that I’d just stand next to Meredith and hold her hand and let her yell at me for doing this to her, but Frances instructed me to grab one of Meredith’s legs, acting as a sort of human stirrup. “Grab a leg, Hun. Let’s help this tough cookie out,” said Frances while grabbing the other, Dr. Bohn in the center.

“Push, push, push. Good job, good job, good job,” said Frances during each contraction. “Atta girl. That’s my tough cookie.”

Now, I already felt worthless—like I wasn’t adding anything useful to this whole ordeal—but a man never feels more worthless than during childbirth. There’s nothing we can do but be there, grab a leg, and encourage the pushing. It’s simply all on the woman.

Since I didn’t know what to do or how to help, I just screamed encouragements with Frances like we were a couple of coxswains as Meredith worked her ass off, pushing with all her might, all her strength, doing an amazing job.

“Push, push, push. Good job, good job, good job,” we yelled in unison.

“Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” I wanted to say to Frances. But jokes were 100 percent out of the question at this point. No way in hell did I have the balls to even attempt one. Nor did I want to. I just wanted to do everything in my power to make sure Meredith made it through this knowing that I loved her and that this would all be worth it.

Now, I’ll stop the play-by-play here and spare Meredith her dignity by not going into the barbaric details. Plus, I’m not sure I can find the right words to accurately describe the brutality of labor. So I’ll just say this: childbirth, whoa, pretty intense stuff right there. Women are absolute gladiators and without question the tougher sex for going through it. My god.

Meredith pushed for just over two hours, enough time for my mom to do six miles worth of pacing around the outside of the building according to her iPhone’s step counter. 

Then finally at 9:36, it happened.

Our son Theodore John Marshall was born, screaming into the world with a look of utter shock on his mushy face. He was already perfect in our eyes, our hearts swelling. We’d call him Theo for short.

By then, I few additional doctors and nurses had accumulated. They let me cut the umbilical cord despite only contributing some Doritos jokes and a few “Good Job” yells to the day. It felt a little like when the owner of an NBA team gets to hoist the Larry O’Brien Trophy before all of the players who did all of the work. After the cutting, they then whisked Theo away to some side table to check that everything was all right while he continued to shriek in confusion, not sure why the hot tub that he had been living in had suddenly sucked him down the drain and into this much more dangerous, colorful, stimulating world.

I eased my way bedside, kissed Meredith. We both looked at each other with teary eyes. “You did it, Warrior Bear,” I said. “You’re so amazing. I love you.”

“I love you,” she said back. “Is he okay?” she asked, already putting her child above her own health like so many mothers before her.

“Yep, he’ll be okay.”

“He just peed on us,” shouted one of the nurses.

“See,” I said. “He’s already pissing on people!”

Dr. Bohn gestured with her head for me to step away so she could attend to Meredith.

I went over to make sure Theo was okay. He was still crying, but he was ultimately fine. I tried a joke now that there was less tension in the room, less worrying about everything that could go wrong, and more celebrating life. “You think you have it bad, Theo, your mom and I had to get up at 3 AM,” I said. Luckily, a few nurses forced giggles. My first dad joke.

Theo had a little fluid in his lungs, so the doctors wanted to take him to the NICU for further tests and overnight observation. There wasn’t any serious concern. Just precautionary stuff. So I left Meredith to recover and followed Theo down the hallway, where passing nurses smiled and wished him a happy birthday.

After about an hour of them doing various tests on him in the NICU, me sitting at the side of his incubator, I finally got to hold him.

My mom always said she wanted us to have kids so that we’d understand just how much she loved us. And I got to say, there’s nothing like that instantaneous love you feel for your child. Everything you go through to get a child into this world—and everything you will continue to do to keep them in this world—is all worth it just to feel that euphoric love.

I looked down at Theo, trying my best to channel my mom and my dad, everything they had taught me about being a good parent. He opened his blue eyes just enough to get a fuzzy look at the bearded weirdo who helped bring him to life, and then wrapped all of his fingers around one of mine.

I looked back at him, thinking about what my dad would say in this situation. “I love you, Theo. It’s going to be okay,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”

I was officially a dad now.