Funny Birth Stories: How I Realized I Am a War Criminal

Yes, my wife carried our son in her body for nine months, nourished him with her organs, and risked her life to bring him earthside. But let’s not ignore my contribution: I carried him for two emotionally fraught weeks inside me—along with a billion of his brothers—and then orchestrated the single deadliest massacre in the history of my own reproductive system.

“Sure, Mom carried you for nine months—but I led a billion tiny troops to their doom.”

Why No One Talks About the Male Side of Birth (Probably Because It’s Disgusting)

Most funny birth stories involve women doing something heroic, like laboring for 36 hours or screaming at their husbands in a language not yet known to man. I respect that. But where are the chronicles of the male experience? The spiritual burden of being the first home your child ever knew—before you annihilated the rest of the family in a catastrophic biological event?

Imagine if your earliest ancestors all died in a bathtub. You’d need therapy too.

My Two Weeks of Pregnancy Glory

Let’s rewind to the beautiful, if statistically doomed, beginning. For two whole weeks, I carried my son in my body. We were inseparable. He was part of me in a way no one else will ever understand. A tiny cell floating in a vast ocean of potential. A microscopic VIP among an army of equally determined swimmers.

I’d like to see someone tell me I wasn’t pregnant. Sure, my pregnancy didn’t involve morning sickness, or cravings, or my internal organs rearranging themselves like some macabre game of Tetris. But it did involve a lot of brooding, and occasional worry that the chosen one would turn out to be a dud.

Some men will never know the profound connection of carrying their unborn child in a delicate organic chamber—wedged between existential dread and mild arousal—until the day of reckoning arrived.

The Day of Reckoning (Otherwise Known as Wednesday)

You know that moment in every funny pregnancy story when something goes horribly awry? Mine began with a candle, an ill-fitting sock on the doorknob, and a profound sense that I was about to commit a war crime.

People think male pleasure is simple. But when you realize you’re about to exterminate 999,999,999 of your own offspring, it takes on a much darker tone. My body became the staging ground for a genocide so vast, the Hague might want to indict me.

And yet, no one throws a baby shower for that.

The Aftermath: Post-Ejaculatory Stress Disorder

The moments after I “delivered” my son—while also delivering his brothers to their watery graves—were complicated. Relief mingled with shame. Triumph tangled with guilt.

Some people call it a “mess.” I call it evidence. Evidence of my crimes against unborn humanity.

You don’t see it on Hallmark cards, but it’s real: Post-Ejaculatory Stress Disorder (PESD). The condition of knowing you are, statistically speaking, the most prolific serial killer in your family tree.

Imagine explaining to your therapist that you feel guilty because your one surviving sperm conquered the others like some deranged Mongol warlord. You’ll never look at your kid’s baby pictures the same way again.

Women’s Nine Months: Respect, But Also Perspective

I don’t want to diminish the fact that my wife carried our son to term while her spine did origami and her hormones transformed her into a beautiful but terrifying creature. I get it. That’s a big deal.

But has anyone considered the emotional labor I endured, knowing that every time I, um, “reproduced,” I was also condemning an entire civilization to extinction?

At least when women give birth, only one baby comes out. When I did it, billions perished in a single act of biological hubris.

Sure, she endured labor pains. But I live with the ghosts of the fallen every day.

Why Men Deserve (A Little) Credit for the Miracle of Life

This isn’t to say fathers are equally heroic. Obviously, we aren’t. But we’re not irrelevant, either. Without us, the process doesn’t start. And with us—let’s be honest—it often ends in catastrophic reproductive loss.

Consider this:

• Women create life.

• Men create life, and then immediately destroy nearly all of it.

I would argue that makes us the more tragic figures. We are walking paradoxes—creators and destroyers, fathers and executioners. This duality deserves at least a polite nod at family gatherings.

How to Live With the Knowledge You’re a Reproductive War Criminal

The hardest part of fatherhood isn’t changing diapers or learning the correct way to hold a newborn so you don’t look like you’re about to drop it on the dog. The hardest part is living with the memory of all the other potential children who never had the chance.

Sometimes I look at my son and wonder what his brothers might have become: an astrophysicist, a jazz musician, a guy who sells vape pens at a gas station. We’ll never know. Because I made the executive decision to, uh, let them go.

No one writes funny birth stories about this part, but maybe they should. Maybe there’d be fewer men feeling like reproductive war criminals if we were allowed to laugh about it.

The Tragedy (and Comedy) of Male Reproduction

Let’s get one thing straight: none of this is about blaming women for overshadowing us. If I had to choose between my experience and carrying a 7-pound bowling ball inside my abdomen for nine months, I’d pick my brand of trauma every time.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. It doesn’t mean it isn’t worthy of acknowledgment, or a small medal, or at least a novelty coffee mug that says “#1 Reproductive War Criminal.”

It’s not too much to ask.

The Day I Knew I’d Never Live This Down

I once tried explaining this to my wife. She was eight months pregnant, her feet swollen like cartoon balloons, her back curved at a mathematically impossible angle.

I said, with sincerity:

“You know, I also carried our son for a couple weeks. And I’ve had to cope with the loss of all the others.”

The look she gave me is the same look you’d give a man who tried to pay for dinner with Monopoly money. I knew then that society was never going to see it my way.

And that’s okay. I didn’t expect to be understood. Just pitied. Or at least acknowledged as a man who faced the most harrowing reality imaginable: the fact that, in my own small way, I am history’s most prolific war criminal.

Frequently Asked Questions About My Crimes

Is this scientifically accurate?

Yes, mostly. The average man produces hundreds of millions of sperm per emission. Only one makes it. The rest? Well…they don’t make it.

Are you comparing this to actual childbirth?

No, I’m comparing it to my experience of fatherhood. Which was traumatic in its own unique, horrifying way.

Does your wife think you’re an idiot for writing this?

Yes, she does.

Is this normal to think about?

No, but neither is watching your body commit daily genocide and acting like it’s no big deal.

Should you be sharing this publicly?

Probably not. But here we are.

A Plea for Recognition (and Maybe a Ribbon)

In honor of all the fathers who have quietly borne this burden, I propose a new commemorative event: National Reproductive War Criminal Awareness Week.

We can wear little ribbons shaped like tiny sperm with an “X” over them. We can hold candlelight vigils for the billions of lives extinguished in bathtubs across America. We can finally have our moment.

Because if we don’t acknowledge this, who will?

Final Thought: A Salute to the Survivors of Funny Birth Stories

At the end of the day, I love my son. He is my one victorious swimmer, my tiny biological gladiator, the sole survivor of an epic massacre.

And while I will never stop feeling vaguely guilty for his fallen brethren, I also won’t stop feeling proud of the fact that, in my own way, I contributed to the miracle of life.

Even if it means I’m technically a war criminal.