Disqualified

Craig and I went to our inaugural parenting class last night. Things started out hunky dory. We’re next to each other facing a circle of five other couples. In the middle is an exotic collection of candles and fertility ornaments. We drink red raspberry tea to tone our uteri. It is yummy. We present ourselves calmly to the crowd, and talk seriously about the words that have been placed in front of us on cards (“guidance” for me, “patience” for Craig). We are ready for this jelly.

At the end of the introductions, our guide announces it's time to show us the first video in a series that will help us prepare for labour. As she turns on the TV, she gets a box of Kleenex going around the circle. “It’s really beautiful—you’ll probably cry,” she cautions.

Craig describes the narrative arc of our video thusly:

Lady is about to have baby. At home.

Lady goes into early labour. Eats three plates of rice and beans.

Active labour begins.
Lady climbs in hot tub.
Hubby climbs in hot tub.
Young son stands butt naked by hot tub waiting for cue to jump in.

Lady pulls out baby from herself. Under water.
Baby is blue.
Son jumps in.
Much celebration.

Lady's father videotapes whole thing. Lady's father. Videotapes. Lady's water birth. Lady is daughter.

Video ends.

Some minor tears around the room. Someone offers, "She made that look so easy."

I am stock still, trying desperately to look unfazed. I can feel Craig peeking over at me to gauge my reaction. I’m in shock: four words threaten to spill screaming from my mouth as I run for the door: “Ceasarian!” “Epidural!” “General anesthetic!”

I chance a glance over at Craig. We begin shaking. Mercifully, breaktime is called. We run to the next room and inhale digestive cookies to mask our growing hysteria. Make it to a secluded corner. Collapse.
We are going to get kicked out of this class. Guaranteed.

Comments

[Amy Wilensky]

Thank you. You just made me laugh for the first time all day. And appreciate for the thousandth time this week that I will not be giving birth again. And as for the videotaping dad and the hot-tub immodest mom? I have two words for THEM: intensive therapy.