With the clock ticking down — way, way down — on Tammy’s pregnancy (OK, our pregnancy, but a man has to know when to include himself in the equation and when not to), I have become a devoted, perhaps even obsessive, follower of the Weather Channel, Weather.com, WLOS meteorologist Mike Cuevas, and anything or anyone else who claims to know something about the weather. Since we are going to Asheville to have the baby and these are the winter months, we are playing a game of dodge ball with the weather, hoping with all of our collective might that when the blessed time comes, it is not snowing or sleeting outside. What if her water breaks during a blizzard? What if we time out the contractions, realize it is time to go, and discover that I-40 has been closed and all back roads are impassable?

These are the kind of nightmarish scenarios that can keep a man up nights following weather patterns, studying developments in Canada and the Gulf of Mexico like a panicky college student cramming for a final he put off thinking about until the night before the exam.

Of course, it is not that I haven’t been thinking about it. I think about it every day, and every night I press my face to Tammy’s belly and talk to the baby, whispering words of encouragement, such as, “Hey, sport, it’s going to be 60 degrees tomorrow, so how’s about you come on out of there?” Or, “Hey, little buddy, it’s freezing rain outside and the roads are a little dicey. What say you hang out in there for awhile longer, and I’ll let you know when the coast is clear?”

I know there are many men out there who have delivered babies and that with my background in scouting and my merit badge in first aid, I should be able to muddle through if there is no other choice than to have the baby here at home. Babies have been delivered in automobiles, outdoors, on ferris wheels, for all I know. Why shouldn’t I be able to deliver my own child here in the comfort of my own home?

I guess it is now time to own up to a couple of embarrassing truths about myself that may put this matter into better perspective. First, just about everything important I know about life I learned on “The Andy Griffith Show.” Since I was a very small child, I have watched the show literally anytime I can find it on any channel, which, in the South, is just about all the time — I am truly surprised there is not an “Andy Griffith Show” channel on cable showing reruns around the clock, but maybe that’s a treat waiting for us in heaven, along with fat free ice cream that actually tastes like ice cream instead of shaving cream, and a pill that enables men to grow back their hair without making them impotent. My friends and family often sit around discussing the virtues and nuances of “The Andy Griffith Show” as if we were tenured professors discussing the works of Shakespeare or T.S. Eliot.

I have always thought the answers to almost any of life’s problem were available in “The Andy Griffith Show,” if you only knew which episode to consult. And, yes, there is an episode in which Andy delivers a baby during a storm. Unfortunately, all you really see is Andy slipping into a back room to deliver the baby while Barney distracts the panic-stricken father with stories over a pot of fresh coffee. We hear a few of the stories, and Andy finally emerges from the mysterious back room with the new baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and hands her to her father.

So, what did I learn from this episode? I learned that if you can’t get to the hospital and your baby is about to be born at home, you must first make a pot of fresh coffee, because it is going to be a long night. I learned that you should boil some water and tear some sheets into uniform strips — I have no idea why, it’s just de rigueur. And, finally, you should call Andy Griffith, and then pace the floor nervously until he and Barney arrive in the squad car.

Now, the other confession: I am extremely squeamish. The sight of blood — heck, even typing the word “blood” — makes me queasy. It is a good thing I am sitting down right now. If the wrong combination of consonants and vowels can make me lightheaded, what am I going to do when the baby pokes the crown of his viscera-coated head through the opening of the birth canal? Did I actually just write that? Excuse me while I lie down for a minute.

Please, somebody call Andy and tell Barney to make some more coffee. It’s going to be a long night.

(Chris Cox is a writer and a teacher who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached chrixcox@prodigy.net.)