They say you don’t really know someone until you have a child with them.
Well… I thought I knew my husband, Michael. We were happy. In love. Ready for the next step. But I didn’t truly see the real Michael until I was in labor—and there he was… treating childbirth like a spectator sport. Yup. He showed up with snacks, his gaming console, and even invited his friend to watch the show.
It still feels like a bad dream.
Pregnancy changed everything. Not just my body or my mood—but how I saw Michael as a person, a partner, and a soon-to-be dad.
At the start, he was over the moon. So was I. We were both excited about the baby. We’d talked about names, painted the nursery, and he even put together the crib without reading the instructions—classic Michael.
But while I spent my time researching baby stuff—Googling how big the baby was each week by fruit sizes (a grape! a peach! a watermelon!), organizing tiny clothes, and checking my hospital bag a hundred times—Michael spent his time raiding dungeons and fighting dragons… online.
He’s a gamer. Always has been.
And honestly? I didn’t mind. After long days at his construction job, gaming helped him unwind. He was a great project manager and worked hard. So sure, he deserved to relax.
Sometimes, I’d feel the baby kick in the middle of the night and yell, “Babe, feel this!”
He’d pause the game right away and rush over, eyes wide, hand on my belly.
“That’s our little ninja,” he’d whisper, his face lighting up.
So sweet. So genuine. He was charming in his own distracted, game-loving way.
But deep down, a quiet worry started growing inside me like a shadow. Would he treat the baby like another “quest”? Like a temporary challenge to complete and then forget about?
I hoped not.
He did come to every appointment. He made midnight runs for ice cream and pickles. He downloaded a contraction timer app and even remembered to charge the camera for delivery day.
But… he also brought his Nintendo Switch to our birthing class and asked the doula, “Will there be Wi-Fi at the hospital?”
I laughed it off. Hormones, nerves, exhaustion—it all made me let things slide. But something deep inside whispered, What if he doesn’t understand how serious this is?
Michael’s parents were so excited about the baby. Especially his mom, Margaret. Every week, she called to check in. She sent little onesies, baby books, and would ask, “Is Michael helping enough, dear?” Her voice was warm but watchful.
Margaret had this calm but firm presence. The kind of woman who probably ran PTA meetings like military operations. When she spoke, you listened.
His dad, Robert, was the quiet type. He didn’t say much unless it really mattered. But when he did speak, you listened even more.
One afternoon during a visit, Margaret quietly said to me, “He was always in his own little world, even as a child. We had to work extra hard to bring him back to reality.”
It stuck with me.
By the time I hit 38 weeks, I told Michael gently but seriously, “Hey, it’s getting real. I need you fully there when the time comes.”
He smiled and nodded, “Babe, of course. I’ll just bring something to keep me busy during the boring parts.”
I blinked. “Boring parts?”
I figured he meant a book or maybe some emails for work. Something quiet.
But oh, I had no idea what he really meant.
A few nights later, I was packing my hospital bag when Michael said, “The first part of labor can take forever. My cousin said his wife was in labor for like 20 hours before anything exciting happened.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Exciting?”
“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “I just don’t want to sit there watching you suffer. That won’t help either of us.”
Okay… I saw the logic. Maybe having something to do would keep him calm and not freaked out. And to be fair, he had been supportive this whole time. Surely, when the real moment came, he’d be present and ready.
Then… the real moment came.
At 2 a.m. on a Tuesday, my water broke. I was in early labor, shaky and breathing through the pain. A kind nurse named Renee helped me into the delivery room and asked, “Your husband parking the car?”
“He’s grabbing our bags,” I said, teeth clenched through another contraction. “He’ll be here any minute.”
Then Michael walked in… rolling one small suitcase and holding a tote bag.
“Hospital bag?” I asked, hopeful.
“Nope,” he said with a grin. “Entertainment station.”
I stared in horror as he unpacked a mini screen, his Xbox, a headset, an energy drink, two family-sized bags of chips, and a controller.
Renee blinked. I blinked. Michael? He was already hunting for a power outlet.
While I was gripping the bed rail in pain, he was trying to set up his gaming console on the rolling hospital table—the one meant for my water and medical equipment!
“Michael,” I gasped between contractions, “what are you doing?”
“Setting up,” he said casually. “Don’t worry, I won’t be in the way.”
“You’re here to support me,” I reminded him.
“And I will,” he promised, plugging in a cable. “But first babies take forever. Remember my cousin’s wife? Twenty hours!”
Right then, another contraction hit like a wave. I clenched my jaw and breathed hard.
“You good?” he asked.
“Not really,” I snapped.
“Need anything?”
“My husband,” I said, locking eyes with him.
“One sec,” he mumbled, still not looking up. “Just need to finish setting this up.”
Then—as if it couldn’t get worse—his best friend Greg walked in holding a Slurpee and a bag of fast food.
“Yo, she said you were only like 3cm, right?” Greg said casually.
I almost screamed.
“What is he doing here?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Moral support,” Michael replied. “For both of us.”
The smell of greasy burgers filled the room, making me gag. I was sweating, shaking, contracting—and these two were setting up a Call of Duty match.
Renee, bless her heart, stepped in.
“Sir, you can’t be in here unless you’re the patient or her partner.”
“She’s fine,” Michael said, not even looking at me. “We’ll just chill in the corner.”
I was literally mid-contraction when he said that.
Greg hesitated, finally realizing the vibe.
“Maybe I should come back later?”
“Nah, man,” Michael said, tossing him a controller. “We’ve got time.”
Renee folded her arms. Her tone went sharp.
“Actually, I need to check her and set up monitors. So anyone not directly helping the mother needs to leave.”
Greg shifted awkwardly. Michael muttered, “One sec, just let me save this.”
And that’s when the universe sent backup.
Margaret and Robert stepped into the doorway—just in time to witness their son playing Xbox while his wife was in labor.
Margaret’s eyes scanned the room—the controller, the headset, the bags of chips—then locked onto her son.
She didn’t yell.
She just said, “Michael. Outside. Now.”
Michael went pale. Greg practically sprinted out the door.
“Mom? Dad? What are you—”
“Outside,” Margaret repeated, voice sharp as a knife.
They stepped into the hallway. The door closed.
I couldn’t hear the words, but I could hear Margaret’s tone—low, intense, commanding.
Renee leaned in with a smile. “Your mother-in-law seems… effective.”
“You have no idea,” I whispered.
Ten minutes later, Michael returned. His face looked… different. Like someone had reset him completely.
Robert walked in behind him, silently picked up the Xbox and the rest of the setup, and said, “I’ll put this in the car.” He didn’t even look at his son.
Michael unplugged everything, packed it up quietly, and came to my side.
He took my hand gently and said, “I’m so sorry, Amy. I get it now. I’m here.”
Margaret sat down on my other side, picked up a washcloth, and wiped my forehead.
“We’ll take care of you both,” she said kindly.
From that moment on, Michael didn’t leave my side. No more games. No distractions. Just ice chips, back rubs, whispered encouragement, and steady hands.
When things got hard, I clutched his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. And when I cried, thinking I couldn’t go on, he leaned in and whispered, “You are the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
Sixteen hours later, our daughter, Lily, was born.
When we got home three days later, Margaret and Robert stayed with us a few more days. I think they just wanted to make sure Michael kept his priorities straight.
And honestly? He has.
That first night, when Lily screamed nonstop at 3 a.m., it was Michael who got up, held her close, and paced the living room singing off-key lullabies until she calmed down.
Sometimes people don’t get it… until they have to.
My husband wasn’t a bad man. He just didn’t understand the weight of becoming a father.
But that delivery room? That was his wake-up call.
And thanks to his parents—especially his no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners mom—he finally woke up.
And I think… he’s going to be an incredible dad.