During birth classes, they made sure to tell us that very few labors start with a dramatic, late-night water breaking. Mine did! My wife was convinced I was in pre-labor the day before, because I was crampy, cranky and having near-nonstop Braxton Hicks contractions all day.

I, of course, soundly rejected her theory. (Told you I was cranky). But at 3:55 a.m. I sat up in bed and felt a pop, deep inside me, and then the dam opened and — well, let’s just say I’m glad I invested in a good mattress protector back when Karma was being housebroken.

The memory of what the contractions felt like — other than “bad” — is fading already, but I may remember that bizarre popping sensation forever. Bo, my wife, was already awake — she’d gotten up an hour earlier, randomly unable to sleep. I’m convinced she sensed our son was coming. My sister was also awake because it was morning in the Netherlands. Perhaps my baby has a European future.

Let me tell you, if you want to make good time into Portland on 295, go at 4 a.m. Even so, by the time we got to Maine Med, my contractions were coming four or five minutes apart, and they were really starting to hurt. I felt like a complete weenie when it came to the pain. Everyone — wife, nurses, CNAs, the doctors, the custodian who came in to refill a soap dispenser — kept telling me how strong and brave I was. I didn’t feel that way.

I was only 10% dilated and literally “screaming, crying, throwing up.” God bless my wife, who kept calmly talking me through breathing exercises and telling me I was doing great even though I kept yelling “NO I’M NOT.”

After a couple hours I got an epidural, which I’m convinced is the greatest scientific invention of all time except perhaps for fire and the wheel. I texted my family that people who give birth without pain relief deserve a full military parade (with the 21-gun salute) and my mom said “you can run that parade by my house, I did it twice.”

There’s a lot of strong opinions, especially in online communities, about medicated vs. unmedicated childbirth. I can tell you that the epidural was the right choice for me because it actually abled me to relax enough to let my body do its thing. I might have even been able to get a quick nap in at some point, although it’s also possible I just had a brief out-of-body experience.

My labor style is apparently “hurry up and wait” — a dramatic burst of activity followed by hours of not much happening; of rolling around on a peanut ball in various positions and eating the delivery floor’s entire supply of Jell-O cups. But it worked, because I went from 20% to 90% in four hours, which surprised the doctor so much she called in a second doctor to double check that indeed, it was pushing time.

Then my medical notes contain the most beautiful sentence in the English language, I think: Victoria is a 33 y.o. G1P1001 who progressed to full dilation and pushed for 37 minutes under anesthesia to deliver a viable, crying male infant.

He didn’t cry loud, at first. We had a bit of a scare. In the womb he had swallowed meconium (a fancy word for “newborn poop”). I’ve had readers tell me I’m full of crap; unfortunately that may be genetic. They suctioned him and gave him some oxygen and by the time the NICU team arrived to assess him, all was well.

But that was, hands down, the most terrifying moment of my life … followed closely by every moment since then. I guess that’s parenthood? I wouldn’t say his crying is music to my ears, exactly, but I do feel grateful for it. I also had a bit of a scare. After an entire pregnancy of behaving perfectly, my blood pressure shot up after birth (I didn’t even know that was a possibility). But thanks to the amazing teams at Maine Med, mothers and baby are doing well.

I hope members of the Maine Med nurses union get everything they ask for in their contract; they deserve it, especially Lauryn, who was with me for almost the whole duration of the labor (and kept the Jell-O flowing), and Audrey, who took care of the two of us in hospital and answered all my dumb, anxious new-parent questions like “Do babies get hiccups?” (They apparently do and it’s fine.)

And thank you to everyone else who was involved. I was in no condition to be remembering names but I’m deeply grateful for everyone involved in our care. It may take a village to raise a child but it takes a battalion to bring one into the world. I can assure you with completely unbiased journalistic integrity that my son is the cutest, most adorablest perfect baby ever to exist (he did seem to inherit my nose, so good luck to him on that front).

He’s 6 pounds, 13 ounces, almost 19 inches long, and with a full head of hair to boot! (I guess he decided to use his growth energy toward hair and not size. Priorities.) He’s also a Libra, like his grandfather and great-grandfather before him.

My mom said he currently looks a little like a tiny, smooth Paul Sorvino in “Goodfellas” and unfortunately she is correct, especially with the skeptical faces he’s always making at me. I try cooing at him and he just gives me the full “You talkin’ ta me??” treatment.

For the purposes of this column we’ll call him Sonny, although I’ve mostly been referring to him as Mr. Baby Man Sir, or sometimes Mr. Man Sir Baby. (When he’s being extremely fussy, it’s Mr. Sir Baby Man. Not my most creative work but to be fair my brain is cooked).

We are home now. Figuring out how to be a family. Figuring out how to be human. Welcome to Maine, little guy. I think you’ll like it here.