Sex, Love, Marriage, Birth - Quick! Pick a Baby Name

I don't belong here.

A delivery room is no place for a man. Here was my wife, in obvious pain, the epidural drip little to no comfort. Nurses tended to her compassionately, the doctor was on her way. And just like Bill Cosby said about natural childbirth, all I could do was coach my wife with lamaze breathing and encourage her to push!

My wife and I subscribed to a modern view of labor and delivery, the one that said fathers should be very much included in the event. I admit, it was exciting to witness my daughter's birth, but I also felt completely out of place. In natural childbirth, mothers do all the work; delivery-room fathers get in the way. It was this same awkward feeling that filled me four years later in the maternity ward at the birth of my son.

"Got a name for him yet?" the delivery nurse asked. She was a big, strong woman, a take-charge force.

"We haven't decided," I replied, trying to sound cheery.

The nurse eyed me skeptically, as if to say, nine months is plenty of time to choose a name. What's wrong with you two?

"I like Alex," I said. The name sounded manly and conquering to me. A warrior, defender, leader. Alex the great. "And she likes -"

"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!" my wife screamed in pain.

The nurse consoled her immediately, gripping her hand and putting a wet towel to her forehead. "Now, now, dear. Just ride it out."

When the wave of pain passed, the nurse turned back to me. "What name does mom like?"
"Nicholas," I said. Victorious people. Named after Nicola, my wife's Italian grandfather. I'm a sucker for names that tie in to relations. But it didn't resonate with me like Alex.
"Hmmm," the nurse said, nodding Nicholas approval.

My wife had been in labor with our daughter for hours. Entire birthdates changed while we waited for the baby to crown. But my son? He was out in a flash. A painful flash. One that had the doctor sprinting through hospital corridors to arrive just before the baby popped out. "Ooooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!"

I couldn't take another scream.

With our newborn son in his mom's arms, the delivery nurse asked me again. "So, Pops. After everything mom just went through, are you still going to insist on naming your son?"

I shook my head. No way. "We'll call him Nicholas," I said.
"Really?" my wife exclaimed, crying, smiling, clearly delighted, swept up in joy.

And for about a day, I was delighted, too. Then I was slowly reminded why, for nine months, I had resisted Nicholas as a name. No offense to the Nicholas's of the world, after all, it's a Top 20 pick, but I simply couldn't handle all the nicknames people gave my newborn son.

My Italian mother-in-law: "Nicola. Cosi bello."
My brother: "How's Nick today?"
My buddy: "You going to call him Nico?"
The grocery cashier: "Little Nicky! How cute!"

"Honey," I said to my wife a few days later. "I know you love the name Nicholas. But I have to be honest, I don't. I simply can't have a son with that name."

My wife was surprised, pissed off, understanding. She sighed. "Fine," she said. "But we're not naming him Alex."
"No problem," I said. "And we'll make Nicholas a middle name."
"He already has a middle name."
"Now he'll have two."

Just like that, at the ripe old age of four days, my son got a new first name.

And whether or not I ever have another child, I'm fairly certain I won't set foot in a delivery room again. I don't belong there.

This is an original Silicon Valley Moms Blog post. David Mott authors the blog Dad's House - Dating and Parenting as a Single Dad.