Birth Rights
by Jeffrey Greene
part 1
Nicholas Patrick got the call on his way home from work, but the Beltway was jammed, as usual, and it was a maddening forty minutes before he finally turned onto his street. Most of his neighbors were camped out in his front yard on lawn chairs, waiting for the good word to start celebrating. Carl Scheinman took his arm as he picked his way through the crowd to his front door, leaning in to murmur: “The Omenist isn’t here yet.”
“Traffic’s godawful,” Nick said.
His friend nodded wearily. “Hope she makes it in time.”
“She will. In fact, here she is now.” A car had pulled up across the street, and a woman in the violet robes and purple face mask of her profession hurried to the front door, nodded curtly at both men, and went inside.
“Anyway, thanks, Carl,” Nick said, “for giving a damn.”
“Hey, you were there for me, Nick, when we had ours. Tell me what I can do.”
“Just knowing you’re here helps. I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
Nick acknowledged the greetings and smattering of applause as he made his way to the front porch and entered the house. He’d been told that dim lights were customary before a birth, but he was still disoriented by the close-curtained darkness of the living room.
A circle of six women were sitting on the floor in the traditional birthing circle, holding hands and chanting a sing-song refrain. He could make out the words “swim toward the light, the light, away from the darkness, swim toward the light.” They were all wearing white, hooded robes, and their heads were almost pressed together, but he could see that his wife Julie’s mother and two of her sisters were there, and Sinja, his older sister, along with one of her friends. The sixth woman he didn’t recognize, but guessed it was the assistant midwife, who was probably wearing a headset under her hood, in case the midwife needed her upstairs.
There was a musty, overpowering smell in the air that he couldn’t identify, and the intense concentration of female energy in the room seem to tear away all of his carefully hoarded male reserve. He felt his stomach dropping as he realized for the first time how profoundly his life was about to change. A cold sweat broke out on his face and, feeling dizzy, he gripped the edge of a chair for support.
Nick felt a strong hand take his upper arm and turned to see the lean, bearded face of Reg Milton, his old friend and chosen Bachelor for the birthing. He went limp, letting himself be half-dragged, half-carried into the kitchen, where a scotch and soda was thrust into his hand. Nodding gratefully, he almost gulped it.
“Thanks, man,” he said, already feeling better. “I was getting woozy in there.”
“Sorry, Nick. I was dropping ice cubes in a glass, and didn’t hear you come in. I’m not surprised you felt faint. You were breathing the air in there for at least a minute.”
“What in the world is that stink? I was about to pass out.”
“Hell if I know, but before she went up to tend to Julie, the midwife opened a tiny glass vial and walked three times around the birthing circle while chanting something I couldn’t make out, then capped it. Pretty volatile stuff; the odor pervaded the room in a matter of seconds. God only knows what it is; essence of afterbirth, probably. Made me weak in the knees. I high-tailed it to the kitchen, opened the windows and made myself a drink. You feeling better now?”
“Almost myself again, thanks to you, but still way out of my comfort zone. I guess that’s the way it has to be. Law of the land, right?”
Reg nodded. “The Birth Lobby has Congress completely buffaloed. And it all happened so damn fast: required home birthing, the midwife law, babies untouched by male hands for at least three days following birth, and that’s just the last session. The Men’s Rights Lobby had to fight tooth and nail just to allow the father and his designated bachelor on the premises during a birthing. Next time around, you and I might be out in the yard with the rest of the non-essential personnel.”
“That’d suit me just fine,” Nick said. “With this set-up, we’re fifth wheels at best. When I walked in, I could feel waves of unwelcome from the Birthing Circle. Unwelcome in my own house. That pissed me off, Reg.”
“I hear you, Nick. But, lest we forget: this is a happy occasion.”
“Yes, indeed, it’s father time at last. What, don’t I look happy?”
“Actually, you look terrified. Which is probably normal. But what do I know?”
“Hey, you’re the smart one. I’m the poor slob who couldn’t live without the whole package.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
Nick shook his head. “I didn’t want to know. It doesn’t matter anyway, long as the kid’s healthy.”
“Amen to that.”
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
They turned to face a tall, handsome, fifty-ish woman in a white robe and cowl.
“Which of you is Mr. Patrick?” she asked.
“I’m Nick Patrick. This is Reg Milton, Bachelor of Record.” Reg held out his hand, but the woman merely nodded, smiled tightly and kept her distance, her hands hidden in the folds of her robe.
Doesn’t want us contaminating her with our male filth, Nick thought.
“I’m Sister Lily, assistant midwife to Sister Laura,” she said. “I’m pleased to meet you both.”
“So, how are we doing up there, Sister?”
“I just received a message from Sister Laura, and you’ll be pleased to hear that all the signs and omens are excellent. Within the hour, maybe sooner, you’ll be a father. Has anyone acquainted you with the parameters of your involvement after the birth, Mr. Patrick?”
“Somewhat,” Nick replied, trying to keep his rising irritation in check. “Maybe we should go over it again. The ink’s hardly dry on a stack of new birthing laws. Wouldn’t want to find myself in violation.”
“Well, I’m sure you know about the three-day ban on male contact with the baby, regardless of its gender. I realize how strange and arbitrary this may seem, but several independent studies have confirmed that babies untouched by male hands for the first three days become adults statistically less inclined to violence. Once the birthing ritual is completed —roughly thirty minutes — and the Omenist has read the signs in the afterbirth, you will be welcome to join your wife at her bedside.
“Touching the new mother is discouraged, but at present, not illegal. I would only ask you to have patience, Mr. Patrick. In three days your paternal duties will officially begin, and until then, you may enjoy a grace period, which will be your last for a very long time. I assume you’ve completed the required courses in sensitivity, diaper changing and bottle feeding?”
“Summa cum laude,” Nick said with a toothy smile. “My teachers were amazed. One of my parlor tricks is to change a diaper while balancing a bottle of breast milk on my nose. And my empathy is so good I’ve been diagnosed with hysterical morning sickness.”
Sister Lily’s silent outrage actually made her seem taller. Without a word, she turned and left the room.
Reg was grinning and shaking his head. “Man, you really let her have it. She might sue you for hurtful sexism.”
“Sorry,” Nick said. “I guess I’ve been a nursing a grudge for a while now over this whole business. Shouldn’t have popped off like that.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Nick. She probably runs into a lot of male resentment on her beat. The Women’s Caucus is holding most of the cards in Congress these days, and as far as Sister Lily is concerned, you’re just another sore loser.”
“Maybe they’re right,” Nick said. “If the kid’s a girl, she’s likely to be less violent with or without my touch, and if it’s a boy... Nah. I don’t buy Sister Lily’s ‘studies.’ A newborn doesn’t know or care whether it’s a male or a female hand touching it. All it cares about is getting fed warm breastmilk, being burped and getting regular diaper changes. And I happily cede breast-feeding duties to Julie.”
“They’re politically poised to give us the old showbiz hook,” Reg said. “Men are still useful as providers and protection, diaper duty and getting up in the middle of the night. But women are nature’s true caregivers, according to the Sisterhood literature I’ve read and should be, quote, ‘legally recognized for their inestimable value at creating and molding community-minded adults out of aggressive, male-dominated children.’”
“Why the hell can’t things be like they were?” Nick wanted to know. “Two parents, two sexes, or hell, the same sex, as long as there’s two, each parent dividing the responsibilities of caregiving between bringing home the bacon and taking care of the kid. It’s worked for thousands of years. All these draconian laws designating male and female duties only exaggerate the divisions between the sexes. Or, to be politically correct, I guess I should say ‘among the sexes.’ Congress has no goddamn business politicizing procreation.”
“And yet they have,” Reg said. “You’re preaching to the converted, Nick. Personally, I think it’s getting out of hand. We need a more active form of resistance besides lobbying our Congressmen.”
“Oh? And what would you suggest?”
Before Reg could answer, a loud, collective ululation went up from the living room. Sister Lily stepped into the kitchen, clearly still angry at Nick, but did her duty.
“Congratulations, Mr. Patrick,” she announced. “You have a son.”
“All right!” he whooped, clinking glasses with a grinning Reg. “Thank you, Sister. And please forgive my rudeness earlier. It was uncalled for.”
“Apology accepted, Mr. Patrick,” she replied stiffly, then turned and left the room.
“Guess it’s time to make the announcement to the folks outside,” Nick said, tossing off the rest of his drink.
“I’ll guard the scotch while you’re gone,” Reg said.
Copyright © 2025 by Jeffrey Greene
