Birthing Class

This morning in the shower I started to wonder how my mornings will change in just a few short months. Likely no more lingering in bed to check Facebook and BabyBump and cnn.com on my iPhone before making the bed, ironing clothes, checking email and then taking a long, hot shower. I probably won’t be able to make a nice tea or hot chocolate before I get settled down at my laptop for the next seven to ten hours. I doubt my lotioning/make-up/jewelry/hair routine will hold up. All of which is fine with me but the unknown does frighten me a bit.

I will have to continue working after the baby is here, of course, and yes, I am incredibly lucky that it will be from home and that I can mostly do it on my own time. However, my bank account is used to me finding anywhere from 50 – 60 hours a week to work and I am afraid they are going to disappear! I haven’t yet had an explicit “what’s going to happen with work” conversation with my boss – I suppose that should be done rather soon. I need to prepare a good, lawyerly argument for whatever it is I will be asking for. (Problem is, those don’t work so well when you are dealing with other lawyers…)

On another note, F and I went to a birthing class this Saturday! To let you know what a chicken I am, I really wanted to back out on Friday night. Like, really. I was so anxious about it. Reason? I am not the typical person. And I’m slightly crazy. I admit this. The typical person likes to know everything about what they are getting into, especially medically. I, on the other hand, would rather be kept in the dark. I usually tell the doctor, “please don’t explain – just do what you need to do and get out.” Mind you, I have been in the labor and delivery room with my sister twice. I have watched her push out two children. I have three younger siblings and innumerable younger cousins. I have grown up holding, changing, feeding babies. I intellectually knew that there was probably nothing that was going to be taught at the class that I didn’t already know or haven’t already seen with my own eyes. But I was still stressed about going. I did not want to hear something that I wouldn’t ever be able to UN-hear. (I also have this thing with feeling ‘trapped’ somewhere. But that’s a whole separate entry one day. And yes, I realize for those of you analyzing me, that this may be related to my relationship issues with F. Yes. I know. Back off. ) The only reason I didn’t back out was because of F – I knew he wanted to go because, as far as child-exposure, he is the complete opposite of me: has never held a newborn or changed a diaper, etc…

It actually was a good class. The instructor was terrific – lots of humor, moved things right along – right up my alley (Carolyn Bittner, a L&D nurse at St. Charles Hospital). The breathing techniques were probably the only really new thing for me and I think they will be beneficial. At least for the first two contractions. I can say I tried. But I think everything was very eye-opening for F. When we were practicing breathing, the men were to be timing us and coaching us, we were to be breathing. So we begin and I feel him breathing on the top of my hair (he towers over me). I whisper, “I am supposed to be breathing. Not you.” He says, “I’m helping you.” I thought, "Oh dear God, no you are not helping me. You are breathing on my hair.” And I wasn’t even in pain. God help him. When we were practicing the ever-famous “hee-hee-hee-who” breaths, F was breathing in with every “hee” instead of out. I cannot tell you how this drove me nuts. I was afraid he was going to hyperventilate right there. I mean, who doesn’t know that a “hee” is a breath out?! For the rest of the class, I couldn’t get the picture of him doing that out of my mind and it was making my skin crawl. You know when something small like that drives you crazy? (Please say yes).

Other than that (and him raising his hand to ask about when he can bring me the champagne I have demanded – who asks that?!! I kicked him) it was a good experience.

Now the mean part: I felt so much better about myself when I left there! Honestly. There were 5 other women in the group. Four of them have let themselves go to hell (assuming they were semi-presentable before pregnancy). I mean pink-sweatpants-red-shirt, dirty flip-flops, no-brushes-used, put-on-sixty-pounds hell. I couldn’t believe it. They looked like they fell into the hamper that morning and whatever stuck, stuck. The one other girl looked normal, thankfully. But one of the gone-to-hell girls is due in twenty-somewhat days and she only found out she was pregnant 7 weeks ago! HOW in God’s name does that happen? She was 6 months along, allegedly, before she knew she was having a baby. You can’t make this stuff up. She was traveling in Hawaii, she said, as if that explained it. When I walked out of the class, I thought, “you’re not doing too bad, Elizabeth.” Then, yesterday, the 17 year old at my butcher hit on me as usual. I could have hugged him. I am almost 7 months pregnant, was wind-blown as all hell, and he still hit on me. I don’t care that he’s 17. That made my damn day.

86 days to go!!!