my memory is admittedly cloudy, but the conception of the Man Shower occurred on one of those nights when ridiculous statements are presented with straight faces (in a bar, over beer, with “the boys”). The fact that pre-term mothers get a party and fathers don’t seemed at the time, for lack of a better word, unreasonable. Lucky for me, my wife, Allison, agreed.

Maybe that’s why she was willing to listen to my idea to throw a Man Shower for our mutual friend and soon-to-be-first-time-father, Stuart*. My pitch emphasized the educational benefit of such an event. Think about it: man-to-man-to-man advice and lots of it, in an encouraging environment where talk, and hopefully drinks, are cheap.

Before I secured her official blessing, though, Allison hit me with the question that makes every man curl up into a big ball of little-boyishness: What was my plan? Plan? Truth be told, I hadn’t gotten quite that far. Cornered, I ‘fessed up: I had no plan. But I knew one thing: Stuart would have to wear a baby carrier. All night. With a 10-lb bag of potatoes in it. And I’d promise to take pictures.

With the title “Stuart: A Man, A Plan, A Shower,” an evite went out that very Monday. “Gentlemen — party for Stu this Friday. Dinner and drinks, men only, details to follow. Oh, yeah: it’s a “Man Shower’ so come armed with your worst parenting stories. Like, ever.”

All that was missing now from the plan: a bar that took reservations for Friday during happy hour, permission from
my wife to miss dinner and bedtime, permission from my wife to get home very late and very drunk, permission from my wife to get up very late (pushing my luck). Anything else? Oh, permission from Stu’s wife, Shannyn. That was secured with the baby carrier and the potatoes, pointing out that Stu would be allowed to keep both.

The 12 attendees would have to cram a year’s worth of zaniness — and, of course, advice — into one night, because we all knew that Stuart wouldn’t be going out again after dusk until roughly this time next year, or get a full night’s sleep for a year, or sleep in for a year, or sleep with his wife for a…

We gathered at 5:55 p.m. that fateful Friday and hijacked Shannyn’s ruse of a dinner with Stuart. At 6 p.m. we started showering Stuart with as much serious advice as beer. Stories of penises and undescended testicles followed. Then a discussion surrounding the great distances pee can travel. Then a bit about paranoid protectiveness while changing one’s daughter’s diaper in a public place.

At 10 p.m. we moved locations — the important distinction being that everyone could tell their wives that the bar was
exited at a reasonable hour, and not be lying. Karaoke followed (strip joints are for bachelors). While we gave Like a Virgin a shot, we quickly switched to guy songs. Alas, no House of the Rising Sun or Cat’s in the Cradle, but a few tracks by Whitesnake.

Post-midnight, the last men standing carried Stuart across the street to a restaurant that serves late-late-late-night sushi. An intended “What Have We Learned?” discussion quickly sidetracked into a lecture, “Above all, remember these three things, first-time father”:

1 Family and friends will only ever tell you the good stuff about parenting (I call this the “conspiracy of happiness”), which is why we abducted you tonight and terrorized you with relentless true stories about the tough, tough times to come.

2 As difficult as things will seem, there are relative, commensurate challenges at every phase of your child’s development, but also, and more importantly, you will forget all of it, no alcohol required (this is how human couples manage to have second children).

3 There is never, ever shame in reaching out to your family and friends and asking for help, advice or favours. Even if none of us will ever reach out to you.

With a good $1,000-plus spent over the course of eight or so hours, the group reluctantly broke up, satisfied in the knowledge that we had absolutely annihilated the piddling budget of any baby shower. Mission: accomplished.

Stuart and I stumbled home (we had conveniently ended the evening near our respective residences — talk about planning!). He thanked me for this thoughtful idea, for this Man Shower, “because Shannyn has forbidden me to drink until the delivery.” A true friend, for better or for worse, I reminded him that he was duty-bound to sleep with the carrier and potatoes, all night.

Gary Butler has written for a number of magazines, including Canadian Health, Rue Morgue and Tribute. He is no longer angry about having to shower himself before the birth of his sons, Finlay, 4 and Griffin, 1.

* names have been changed