Over the past few months, Michelle and I have been attending a few baby classes at our hospital. Most of the classes were just a couple of hours long in the evenings, and one was an all day, nine-hour birthing session. The shorter classes covered things like how to change a diaper, how to give your new-born a bath, signs of a sick baby, how to swaddle, how to feed your baby…you get the picture. Nothing real exciting or funny happened in the shorter sessions, but all good stuff. They were instructed well and went by quick. Although, in our first session, Michelle and I used a practice baby that was doing a ‘thumbs-up’ just like a certain popular ‘Happy Days’ character…I dubbed our practice baby ‘Baby Fonz’. That’s him in the picture, “Heeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy”.
The day long session was the real ball buster. Michelle and I took it mostly because you got a tour of the birthing unit at the end of the class, which we were interested in. It was a disaster from the moment we walked in. We immediately saw the instructor was sorta hippyish, the first bad sign. Then Michelle, who is interested in getting an epidural, took a look at the agenda and saw no mention of going over them. Instead it was mostly natural birthing techniques. This is when Michelle’s pregnancy hormones kicked into overdrive and I saw tears starting to well up. Knowing I had to defuse the situation quickly, I made sure to tell our hippy instructor, lets call her Mary Jane, to be sure to cover the drug options.
After everyone sat down, and Michelle and I did our usual, “Hey look at that couple, yikes!”, Mary Jane went around the room and asked everyone what they were looking forward to learning about most. Saving the best for last, she asked me and I replied, “Well, we have a chocolate lab and he took to his crate training very well. I was just wondering how long does it usually take to crate train a baby?” Mary Jane looked at me like I came in dressed in a Nazi uniform, while everyone else chuckled. After a few seconds, her LSD ravaged brain accepted the fact that what I said was a joke and gave me an annoyed smile. What she didn’t know is that she showed me a button of hers I could press for the next eight hours.
The day went on and on. We went over breathing, preparation, what to do in the hospital, etc. Oh, and LOTS and LOTS of videos of naked pregnant women, in various acrobatic positions, squeezing out babies like an assembly line. The C-section videos were also a treat. After some reminding by me, I made Mary Jane talk about epidurals, which she did, as well as show another painful looking video of a women getting an epidural. As I watched all these women going through labor for their children, all I could think to myself is, “Man am I glad that’s not going to be me.” (Michelle, you going through this will only make me love you that much more.)
Lets not forget that throughout all of this, Mary Jane would ask if anyone had questions, which I would ask, “Does the baby need her own crate, or can she share with the dog?”, “Can she drink out of dish or should I put one of those gerbil water bottles in there with her?”, “How long until we can trust her outside of the crate?”, and “Is it ok to leave the crate in the basement so we don’t have to hear her cry at night?” I noticed with each of my questions a new wrinkle appeared in her face.
After many long hours filled with useless breathing techniques and bloody videos, it was time for the tour. This was it, the main reason we were there. And what do you know? That sucked too. She showed us a couple of rooms and that was it. However, by that time, we just wanted to get home anyway. After we got back, Michelle went to bed and I had a few drinks, laughing at how much weed Mary Jane had to smoke that night to get the memory of a day with me out of her head.