Dave Barry Is Responsible for the Birth of My Daughter

Five years ago today I gave birth to my daughter. And it's all Dave Barry's fault.

No, no, not that way. C'mon, I've never even met the guy. Though I would very much like to. And have you seen my baby daddy? No denying the parentage there.

The part I blame Dave for is the date. Ainsley wasn't due for another 2 1/2 weeks. Had it not been for his Book of Bad Songs, I actually may have given birth on my Labor Day due date, which sooo would have satisfied my love of irony.

I've been a Dave Barry fan since we lived in Lexington and I used to read his syndicated column in the paper. Then I moved on to his books, and I've devoured every one he's written. If you've never read Dave, check out a column or his blog here. His columns make me laugh out loud. And not just like hee hee hee. Like, full-body convulsions. Jason always knows when I'm reading a Dave Barry book because I can't control myself. An ordinary night becomes a giggle-fest that usually ends with my spraying whatever I'm drinking out my nose and getting the hiccups from laughing so hard.

On my last night as a pregnant woman, we met some friends for our old Friday-night routine of drinking beer (or near-beer, in my case) and throwing darts. My librarian friend checked out a book for me that she couldn't believe I hadn't read yet: Dave Barry's Book of Bad Songs. While everyone else got sloshed and played cricket, I sat and read the book. And laughed. And blew O'Doul's out my nose. And got the hiccups. And gave the baby the hiccups. It was a fine evening.

Maybe not so fine for Jason. I pretty much tuned him out, and when he asked what was so funny, I couldn't even make it through a complete sentence without erupting into breathless giggles. And I took the book to bed with me, and read until he asked me to stop so that the bed would stop shaking and he could get some sleep. Poor guy was scheduled to work a rare Saturday the next day.

Needless to say, he didn't have to go in that day. I woke up at 7am, sides still sore from laughing, and made my humpteenth voyage to the bathroom. Something was different that time, though. I cursed myself, thinking I hadn't made it to the toilet in time. A little investigative work showed that my water had broken. 14 hours and an epidural later, we had Ainsley. She didn't seem ready for the world and was a colicky, angry baby from the beginning, and I am sure it's because she was jostled from the womb by her mom's laughter, triggered by Dave Barry's (and his readers') commentary about the worst pop songs of all time ("Someone left the cake out in the rain...And I don't think that I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have the recipe again...OH NOOOOOOO!")

Yep. Still slays me.