I've got seven kids. The three words you hear most around my house are 'hello,' 'goodbye,' and 'I'm pregnant.' ~~ Dean Martin

So I’ve been thinking about childbearing lately because of the Feast of the Nativity of Our Lord. Here’s what I’ve been thinking. Gabriel tells the Blessed Virgin, “blessed art thou among women.” Of course this only makes sense. Mary is God’s chosen vessel to bring forth His firstborn son. She is the Theotokos, the one who bears God in her belly, the very Mother of God. The lot has fallen to her to bring into the world its Savior. Blessed indeed.

She was, however, still actually pregnant. And because she, and we, continue to suffer the consequences of Adam and Eve’s disobedience, I imagine that means Mary suffered through her pregnancy and the blessed birth of her Savior in much the same way the brilliant Mrs. Jones suffers through her pregnancies.

So permit me to jump thoughts here for a moment. Picture for me a situation in which a person, let us call him Howard Taft, saves someone’s life. This rescued person, let us name him Woodrow Wilson, has managed to enrage a mother grizzly by kicking one of her cubs and does not know Howard Taft from Adam. As Woodrow Wilson runs down the hill at top speed (remember friends, always run downhill, a bear’s front legs are shorter than her back legs) he trips, falls, and is about to be disemboweled by a mama grizzly with a righteous anger. Howard Taft, seeing this, hurls his considerable bulk between man and bear even though he knows he will sustain a serious injury, perhaps even die. Woodrow Wilson does not die thanks to the fact that the bear is shot dead by a brave and handsome woodsman named Theophil Jones who happens to be nearby and witnessed the entire saga.

What is the point of the story? Most people, myself included, would treat Mr. Taft as a hero. I would treat his wounds, care for him, and nurse him back to health. I would very much admire his sacrifice.

So too with our pregnant wives. Every time they get pregnant they throw themselves in front of a train which will inevitably lead to pain and suffering. They will gain weight and have to diet. They will throw up every day for a month. They will lose sleep because of aching joints and have more sleepless nights caused by needy infants. They will suffer health problems, indignities from doctors, catheters, episiotomies, C-sections, and those wretched hospital gowns that the nurses always tease are from Victoria’s Secret. In some cases they will have to have hysterectomies and blood transfusions. In some cases they will die.

And they, and the brilliant Mrs. Jones in particular, will do all these things for someone I love dearly – one of my children. True, I don’t know that child yet, but I’m five for five when it comes to falling in love with the children Mrs. Jones produces, so it’s not too great a stretch to say that the brilliant Mrs. Jones suffers pregnancy and post-partum for someone I dearly love. And if anyone else, say my kid brother, Theophilus, suffered and faced certain pain and possible death for one of my children I would certainly move heaven and earth to nurse and care for him.

My point? In my weakness Ol’ Jonesy is sometimes guilty of being less than charitable when the brilliant Mrs. Jones is needy during pregnancy. It can be hard to take over scrubbing dishes when she's morning sick, when I’m already up to my ample eyebrows in work. But we must remember our wives suffer for someone we love. And, by my estimation, this is the essence of Christian duty: to do what is right in charity.

Oh, and you get babies. It’s a pretty good deal if you ask me. Put in a little extra work, get babies, then be happy.

P.S. And yes, this one makes number six for the Jones’s. And all of them will be under six years old. Thrice blessed am I (x2).