We signed up for a six-week parenting class over at the hospital where we’ll be delivering. Classes go from 6:30 to 9:00 (!) and Amy doesn’t think I can try to get this time converted into credits and transferred onto my transcript. We went for the first session last night and, how can I say this politely?, but it’s really not our thing.

Before I complain, I will say that I found parts very helpful and informative. Amy knew most it already, but it’s good to know things like how to time contractions, how long the whole process typically lasts (about twice as long as I suspected), what the measurements and terminology mean, and things of this sort. We watched two short videos that helped cement this stuff that just reading out of a book would not.

However. We are not baby people. We just aren’t. Babies are fine. They’re cute. I know we will love our little bundle of joy more than we can ever imagine. However. They look like a lot of work. We like our sleep. A lot. We do not view this as a miracle that beggars belief but rather a very natural function experienced by many mammals on a daily basis. The world will not change through the course of this event; our world will change radically and in ways that we can hardly imagine, but the world will not. There is a distinction here that many people seem to miss.

So let’s just say we’re not the audience for the hippie instructor oozing maternal love and reassurance. Amy is notoriously anti-New Age but I was mostly disturbed by the fact the word “baby” somehow mysteriously lost its articles. Here are some examples: “At this stage of delivery, baby will drop into this position.” Or “The womb is a sterile environment for baby until mom’s water breaks.”

The worst part was when the men and women went into separate circles to discuss their fears. Let’s say all the guys weren’t on the same page when it comes to views of gender roles, as some wondered how they were going to be able to provide for mom as she takes care of baby. And I was all, “WTF? I didn’t realize this class was taking place in 1962.” And then there was all of the male posturing of making clichéd jokes rather than actually talking about what emotions they’re experiencing. So let’s talk about how we’re worried that we won’t be able to golf as much after baby comes…

And Amy had problems with some of the reassurances given to the women about their concerns, because they weren’t medically accurate. The instructor said episiotomies aren’t done any more, or are extremely rare; Amy said that’s flat out untrue. The instructor also said women aren’t incontinent in the weeks after birth; Amy also said that’s flat out untrue. Amy’s personal practice as a women’s health nurse practitioner is to educate with facts, not minimize fears by claiming things are extremely rare when they might just be uncommon. So we were both thrilled at this point, with half the class to go.

Of course, 2.5 hours is way too long and I was bored and mischievous from the word ‘go’ (which is also the story of my primary and secondary education in case you’re interested). And of course my M.O. is to make the person sitting next to me laugh so they get in trouble, and in this case it was Amy. Here’s a list of my attempts to make Amy laugh:

* When the dads had to line up to collect our pre-printed name tags, I kept trying to get Amy’s attention so I could mouth to her, “WHAT’S YOUR NAME AGAIN?”

* When we were being reassured for the 164th time that we have nothing to worry about, I asked Amy if I should inquire about the present rates of maternal death during delivery.

* When we were learning about the Bag of Waters (all caps of course), I told Amy that Galadriel used her Bag of Waters to tell Frodo’s future before he left Lothlorien.

The best part was that the class concluded with us rolling out our floor mats, dimming the lights, and working on our breathing while dad massages mom’s back. Now I know full well that Amy likes her back rubs, but I also know full well that she absolutely hates anything even remotely New Age and this scenario was like a 10-90 split in that regard. The purpose of this exercise was to help us learn to communicate our emotions. Amy whispers to me, “I hate this. I want to go home.” I alternated whispering in my most affected Don Juan, “God I love you baby,” to robotically repeating everything the instructor suggested like, “I love you. You are doing fine. I am here for you. I am reassuring you.”

Back in ‘99 I figured if Amy and I could survive the living hell of wedding planning we could get through a lifetime of marriage. Now I’m thinking if we can get through five more of these horror shows we’ll be able to handle a kid. And unfortunately for these instructors and most of our classmates, the foundation of our relationship is laughter.

Current Mood: A Little Evil |
Currently Listening To – Beck – “Guero”