Chapter 2: Before Having a Baby You Should Take a Class, or Alex Wears the Fat Suit

There is nothing like being handed a diploma while wearing a ridiculous hat and silly billowy gown that makes all that class time seem worth it. I’m not sure where all of my degrees and diplomas are at this moment, though I do have a small laminated version of my high school diploma in my wallet that was neatly tucked into the corner of the bigger version that I was handed on that memorable day in the year of our Lord, 1996. I regularly show it to police officers when I am pulled over, hoping that they will see that I am a responsible high school graduate and let me off the hook.

I have taken too many classes in my life. Perhaps it was the many years of college (four years squeezed into eight) combined with twelve years of school that causes me to break out in hives when the thought of sitting in another desk or classroom is presented to me.

Don’t get me wrong, each step along the educational road has been worth it, and I certainly enjoy having the degrees to look at.(Wherever they may be)

But I can wholehearted recommend taking a birthing class and getting that degree.

As I rushed to the hospital on the night (does it always have to happen in the middle of the night?)I was secure in the knowledge that my birthing class diploma was stowed securely in my overnight bag, and that I would not be one of those poor sap fathers who were doomed to wander the halls, mumbling incoherently to themselves because they were not allowed to the birth of their child on account of not having a birthing class degree.

I was shocked when there was no hospital procedure for checking the degree status of the father before the birth.

Shocked.

But it was worth it none the less, if only for those graphic videos and chance to wear a pregnancy suit. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It funny to walk in a class setting like this and see the variety of folks who are having babies these days. Apparently it’s all kinds.

I immediately wondered if the other folks in the class took one look at me walking in with my beautiful little wife Julie and say “what was she thinking, I mean letting a goofy guy like that marry you is one thing, but to then let him impregnate you?”

Sometimes I feel like my lovely wife is the degree I was awarded for all those hours in the classroom of life. (An unlike those other degrees and diplomas I know where she is this moment because and she would greatly object to being put in a box)
Birthing class is a great check on the old ego, because you are immediately put in your place by the slightly militant way that the instructor commands respect.

“Okay class, it’s time for breathing.”

This is not a suggestion; you and your partner must breath. One two three four, one two three four…

All of the sudden you have come full circle. You could be a professor or mathematician or Supreme Court Justice with thousands of hours of class room time and then all of the sudden your in kindergarten again, counting. One two three four, one two three four…

It was enough to make me start looking around for the graham crackers and milk and story time rug.

I think I fazed out for a minute during the breathing session and Julie said “Alex, are you paying attention?”

“Yes dear, ABCD, ABCD…”

Next comes the big blue ball of comfort.

Now, this is another kind of curse, because you are handed this big, beautiful rubber ball for your wife to sit on and relax, and you are not allowed to even once kick it. This, to a room full of males is torture. “Wait a minute, you’ve got us counting over here like kindergarteners, and then you give us this huge ball and won’t let us pay kickball with it?”

Torture.

It turns out that this big blue baby ball will be present in every one of our delivery rooms and is the latest thing in birthing circles, and I can’t help but think that somewhere someone either lost a bet, or that the French are pulling another trick on us. “Jean-Claude, first we got them to buy bottled water and eat goose liver, now we are going to get them to sit on a big blue ball while they give birth! Next we are going to get their adult males to practice counting to four again!”

At some point the task master/drill sergeant instructor will pull out the pregnancy suit and ask for a male volunteer to don the suit and run an obstacle course. (Again, somewhere the French are laughing their rear ends off)

I recommend trying on the suit for two reasons. It really does give you empathy for your pregnant wife and how often do you get to pretend to be Michael Moore for an hour?

During the hour that I volunteered to wear the suit the following happened to me:I traversed an obstacle course of objects place precariously in my path, had a sexy comment whispered in my ear by Julie (no dear, I’m not in the mood at this moment, my back hurts, my ankles are swollen from jumping over these dumb obstacles and I’m sweaty) was laughed at by twenty or so pregnant women and actually hurt my back as I casually bent over to pick up yet another set of papers dropped by my instructor.
We have pictures, and they prove what I already knew. I would make the homeliest pregnant woman you ever saw.

Another surreal moment is when they start handing the medieval implements of torture around, again making you feel like you’re in some inquisitional kindergarten class. There is a hook, a suction device and a clamp that looks like it should be used for picking up large frozen fish down at the wharf. These objects will be inserted into your wife and used to pull out your child, and you are expected not to try to punch out the doctor who is using them.

It’s also around this time that the instructor casually mentions that there is a slight possibility that the doctors will need to better hear the baby’s heart beat, and to do this they insert a small electrode in the baby’s skull to better monitor the child’s vital signs. This is followed by the reassuring comment “The baby will be fine, it only goes into the first layer of the skull.”
I quietly reminded myself to pack a taser in my overnight bag.

And then come the videos.

I recommend not eating during the video session.

I have been to medical school and I have worked in a clinic and I have never seen anything like the videos they show at birthing class.

I would hazard a guess that the shocking nature of the videos are to snap you out of whatever blissful haze all the baby propaganda you have been exposed to has put you in, and to get the screaming out of you before hand so as not to react that way when your beautiful wife needs you to be calm, supportive and stable.

As a famous banner once said, “Mission Accomplished.”

As I sat there in shock, nursing my sore back and twisted ankle, I realized that the poor souls in the video would soon be Julie and I.

Now, I have been through boot camp. I have been out on the ocean in wild storms. I have climbed dangerous cliffs and jumped off high objects, and I would put having a baby up there with these experiences in terms of intensity.

There is fatigue, there is high emotion, there is pain (not for me, but my Julie describes the whole process as “being hit by a truck”) and there is excitement. And I’m glad that I was adequately trained and prepared for this event. As much as I may joke about it, I’m glad I had a previous encounter with the hook and the clamp. In fact I was surprised how nonchalantly I held them as the doctor got in position. (Did the inquisitor’s assistants feel this way after a while? (“Igor, get the rack ready, stoke the coals for the feet burning and go get me a latte’)

On the final night of class I proudly volunteered to put away all the blue rubber balls like an eager kindergartener (It was a great moment when we put them in the classroom next door and gave each one of them a satisfying kick to their positions at the other end of the room) and accepted my baby class graduation degree with pride.

Our stern,(actually as I look back on it she was very pleasant and patient) instructor gave me a smile and a pat on the back as she handed the paper to me, but the funny hats and billowy gowns were strangely absent. Little did I know that very soon (and I mean very soon, as in two days later) in their place would be hospital gowns and small baby hats.

I wonder where that diploma is right now.