Birthing class #2 began in a classroom, where our instructor (the one who was sans children) gave us a rundown on the internal workings of birth. To graphically display this, she whipped out what was clearly a striped ski cap with a doll shoved inside.
‘This is a uterus, ‘ she declared. This is going to be gross, I thought. As she continued, I couldn’t but study the mannerisms of this woman who gently stroking this purple ‘bag o’ baby.’
Our pregnant journey has been marked by interesting characters. Our Napoleonic OBGYN for example, or our hungover car salesman who suggested we buy if he could give us a ‘sweet deal’. It should be of little surprise then that one of our instructors is a bit of an odd bird. I have a sinking suspicion she may, in fact, be Canadian. I do have a few reasons for this postulation:
1) Whenever she discusses something that is potentially disgusting (say, bodily fluids in birth) she prefaces it with ‘I don’t want to be goshe.’ It’s a word in which I am unfamiliar, but just sounds Canadian. Or possibly Yiddish.
2) In talking about the cervix, she referred to the widening process as ‘dilatation’ and not ‘dilation.’ As any fervent Bear Grylls watcher will tell you, the Queen’s English apparently is predisposed to these added syllables – ‘disorientated’ and ‘glacier’ (pronounced glassier) being good examples.
3) In describing the motion of the fetus (or fetitus I guess), she said that it would move ‘this-a-way’ or ‘that-a-way’ – see point 2.
4) She kept winking one eye when she talked, which either meant that she’s Canadian (they are ALWAYS winking) or she was acknowledging that I knew her dirty, Maple Leaf flavored secret.
This is not at all to suggest she’s a deficient instructor – she’s great at what she does. Her speaking style is a lot like Bob Russ (Ross I’m told, close enough I thought), that painter on PBS that’s always painting ‘happy little trees’ and throwing back beers with his pet squirrel. She’s a quiet, reassuring talker which I’m sure works pretty well in the delivery room opposite the profanity spewing, red-faced mothers trying push out the baby their ‘damn husbands’ caused them to have.
Anyway, she began to describe a typical birthing experience, which can often include something called ‘false labor’, which is characterized by something known as ‘Braxton Hicks’ contractions.
John Braxton Hicks
Genius
Some research (done outside of class mind you – look how studious I am) uncovered that this condition was named after a fella named John Braxton Hicks who ‘discovered’ these contractions in the 1870s. It amazes that some guy was able to claim naming rights to what amounts to ‘fake’ contractions. What exactly did he have to do to get credit for this other than to give it a name?
‘Doctor Hicks, I’ve been having these contractions, but I’m not in labor? Any ideas?’
‘Oh. Uh. Sure, those are what I call ‘Braxton Hicks contractions.’
‘Oh. Thanks doctor, I…achoo!’
‘That’s a Braxton Hicks nose reflex.’
Apparently this false labor can happen weeks in advance, which I’m sure will occur on the 15th hole of the best round of my life. I will rush home, quickly accepting that this is the day my life will change, only to arrive home to my wife watching a movie on the couch and mumbling something about ‘Braxton Hicks’ as she drifts off in a nap. Damn that guy.
Once labor actually begins, the progress is measured by the cervix dilation (or dilatation, eh?) measured in centimeters. Of course, since this is AMERICA and not THE REST OF THE WORLD I’m going to insist that all measurements occur old school style. So once Kim dilation reaches 1.9685 inches, we’re supposed to go to the hospital. At 3.937 inches the baby should ready to emerge.
We finished our classroom session once again by watching a video about life in a fantasy world where childbirth is all smiles and happiness. I’m pretty sure it starred the Smurfs.
The second half of class was once again a lesson in breathing. Time was running short so we did not learn too many techniques this particular evening. I think my favorite was the ‘short pant’ which sounds like what it is. Actually, it kind of doesn’t. Imagine a dog on a hot day. Now replace the dog with a pregnant woman. Replace the dog’s pleasant demeanor with the steely grit of painful determination and/or aforementioned husband directed rage. Replace dog leash with wife’s hands in death grip on husband’s forearm. Replace dog food with pickles and ice cream. Replace…well, you get the idea.
2 classes down, 3 to go. I hope it doesn’t get too ‘goshe’ going forward, eh?
