Prepared Childbirth Class

It's probably a good thing that Scott and I didn't go to high school together.  It would have been a disaster with both of us ending up with very bad grades, I'm sure.  That is, if this weekend's experience is any sign. . .

Yesterday, we attended the first of two six-hour long "prepared childbirth" classes.  First, can I say that giving up six hours of the weekend and hauling ass to downtown Denver early on a Sunday morning was tough.  Really tough.  But I had high hopes.  Was excited even.  I packed my two pillows and blanket as instructed and put on my best "can do" attitude.

But - for us - the experience was kind of a bust.  Part of this is purely because Scott and I are the people that we are.  We are data geeks.  Information hounds.  Statistics folk.  I love me a survey and statistics.  And Scott was still coming off his Daddy Bootcamp high.  So, we came in a bit more learned than the others in the room.  As the day progressed, I kept waiting for some "a-ha moment."  Some nugget of info that I didn't really have a grasp on.  It came - at lunch - we discovered that the cafeteria is pretty much open 24 hours.  WIN!  That, and the tour of the birthing and recovery rooms of the hospital was well worth the price of admission.  The accommodations, I must say, are pretty posh.  I was pleased with that.  It made the day worth it.

Of course, that was at the END of the day.  Before that, we watched the standard birthing videos, talked about the stages of labor, talked about the signs of labor, talked about and saw another video about medical interventions.  Blah, blah, blahdity, blah.  I don't mean to sound like I'm blowing this off, or an expert, because I know better, but I also have six books sitting on my night stand right now that cover the same damn thing.  I'm pretty sure that what put both the hubs and I over the edge was the relaxation and massage section.  Just thinking about it makes me smile.  Anyone who knows my husband well is probably giggling, too.  Because seriously.  Scott and I are not that couple.  We are not the kissy-face, schmoopy schmoop couple.  We are not the "gazing into eachother's eyes discussing our deepest hopes and fears" couple.  Nope.  Not us.  We ARE that couple who makes fun of the above mentioned couples and giggles.  Which is pretty much how it all went down. 

The woman leading the session introduces the whole relaxation and massage section.  She goes on and on about how important it is and how we should return to our homes and continue to practice the techniques that she's going to introduce to us.  Then, she dimmed the lights, told us to get our pillows and blankets and snuggle up together on the floor.  Glancing around the room, I could tell that there were some couples that were WAY into this.  Too into it for public, in my humble opinion - not to judge - but just for my own comfort level.

To our left, we have the Bradley Method people - this couple who is very determined to have an all-natural and intervention free birth, and the husband is way, WAY too interested in all things birthing.  It was like he was pregnant.  Every break, he cornered our patient instructor pumping her for information while his poor, pregnant wife sat quietly unengaged - probably longing for a doughnut.  To our right, we have the hipster couple.  They are too cool for us.  And way into one another.  Very touchy, feely, lovey, soft porn on Showtime kind of couple.  Across the room, is the female dominated couple.  The woman whose husband does everything wrong and it seems her obligation in life to inform him of how wrong he is.  "No, like THIS!"  And everything in between.  Two couples expecting twins who look petrified with fear, the older dude and much younger Mom couple,  the "I'm not really quite sure what's going on with those two, but they are clearly stuck in 1985" couple...

And then, there's me and Scott. 

So, as the instructor starts to guide us in our relaxation, we give it our best shot, but it was not going to last long.  Starting with the deep breathing, and gazing into one another's eyes, I'm biting my tongue to not laugh and Scott is poking me saying, "you're supposed to be relaxing."  It was just all so awkward.  Scalp massages.  Face massages.  Butt massages.  No joke.  BUTT massages.  All on a dirty hospital classroom floor with 1/4 inch thick carpet.  By the end, we just gave up and quietly giggled and poked each other as we listened to pregnant blissed out moans from our classmates.

Then we broke for lunch.

The conversation went like this:
Me:  "That was weird."
Scott:  "Way weird."
Me:  "Have you learned anything?"
Scott: "Not really."
Me:  "Me, neither.  Are we coming back next week?"
Scott:  "I don't think so."

We are prepared childbirth class drop outs.  Oh, the shame we must be bringing upon our daughter!  But truly, we are now just about as prepared for childbirth as we can be.  That's not saying that I won't thumb through another book in the bookstore looking for some new take, or pump my doctor with questions at my appointment this morning.  But school's out for us.

7 weeks, 5 days and counting...