GB & I spent last Saturday at our labor & delivery class at the hospital, and I'm pleased to say that neither of us passed out during the graphic videos. Actually, I think we both enjoyed it and found it to be a bonding experience. Our hospital has a nice little classroom building on its campus, under the big green trees, and they brought in lunch for us, which was a big hit for me as in recent weeks Snoopy has moved out from underneath my stomach and I have been able to gradually but steadily increase my food consumption without fear of intense back pain.
We got to meet several other couples in various stages of pregnancy. It was a real mixed bag. We could tell who was there for the labor and delivery class because like us, they were carrying pillows. When we pulled into the parking lot, we passed a big lanky kid wearing a rumpled t-shirt and too-big shorts, a visor over his spiky hair and a set of big wooden beads around his neck, carrying pillows for his wife. "At least I'm dressed better than THAT GUY," GB said. Well, in a great example of stereotypes being turned on their ear, that kid ended up being a resident at the hospital. Rounding out the cast of characters was a guy wearing a Marvin Gaye t-shirt who slept through most of the class and woke up only to text on his Blackberry; a nice Indian couple who were in my breastfeeding class a few days earlier; and an oddly silent pair who showed up fifteen minutes late (thus forever disgracing themselves in my eyes) who looked like they might be brother and sister. The husband was thin and fretful-looking, wearing a pair of brand new white tennis shoes; his too-short pants flapped around his skinny ankles and were hitched up under his nipples. By the end of the class I deeply suspected that he might have bodies hidden under his porch. I'm also suspecting that given my luck, his wife will go into labor at the same time I will, and we will have birthing rooms right next to each other.
Apart from the people-watching, we were given the chance to play with a birthing ball, learn some massage and relaxation techniques, and learn more about the actual birthing processes. They covered a wide range of topics such as natural birth, c-sections, epidurals, pain management, etc. We got to see a glassy-eyed baby doll shoved into a plaster casting of female pelvic bones to demonstrate how they have to squeeze through, and it disturbed me greatly that the doll seemed rather small compared to a real newborn, whereas the plaster pelvic bones were far larger than me when I held them up to my hips during a break. I don't quite see how this is going to work.
They split the men and women up to answer some questions -- what are the best / worst parts of pregnancy, the scariest, etc. The men went next door and five minutes later were pressing their noses to the glass, done, while the women hadn't even finished discussing the first question.
"Hormones are the worst thing," one woman said decidedly. She was both merry and scary in an enormous grey tracksuit and her partner or husband sported full-sleeve tattoes, a Mohawk, and a complete unwillingness to make eye contact with anyone. "I threatened to STAB him a few weeks ago. We were in the kitchen. I had a knife in my hand. I don't think I really would have, though," she finished hurriedly, as the rest of us regarded her with open mouths.
When the men came back, their answers disappointed the nurse. "In my last class, the men's group said that the best thing about pregnancy was having a designated driver for nine months," she said, and GB snorted out loud. "Not that I'm man-bashing or anything," she told him. He looked skeptical, even more so when part of the class was dedicated to the men giving the women massages and being told to help with housework. Not that I minded that part.
In other news:
It's going to rain for the next five days.
I'm very tired, and my legs look quite fat. (Note I say "look" as though it might be an optical illusion. I think this is just wishful thinking.)
Snoop has taken to kicking me in the ribcage with great vigor. It actually takes my breath away, and that's a good thing, because it HURTS and if I had breath I would probably either yelp or whimper. The other day she was pummeling me whilst a high level manager sat at my desk showing me a variety of charts and graphs, and explaining such things as the Standard Deviation, and all I could do was nod weakly and hope I wasn't turning white as a sheet.
I've lost track of how many weeks I am, but the other day someone gleefully advised me that I had been a topic of conversation in the Widget Central cafeteria, where someone said (I imagine in horror, although it might have been in a completely different tone of voice, which could render the words less grievous, although I don't really think this is the case,) "I never in a million years thought I would see her looking like THAT."
I stonily regarded the person regaling me with the tale.
"He didn't mean it like THAT," she said quickly. "YOU know. You just used to be so -- LITTLE."
Bleah.
