Under normal circumstances, I would not attend such a class. There are a variety of reasons for this, most notably the long understood inability of men to breastfeed their children. I simply do not have the parts, nor do I foresee a time in the future when that particular situation will change (let’s hope). In addition to this obvious situation, there are several other notable reasons why I would not attend such a class, including the fact that I didn’t really want to, and that (again) I don’t have the parts.

In any case, it was made clear to me that I would attend the class, ostensibly to help retain the knowledge of this feminine art and to helpfully remind my wife of “latching” tips at 4 AM in the morning while our newborn child gently reminds us that he/she is, in fact, very hungry by screaming endlessly and at high pitch. I resigned myself to my fate and dutifully informed my boss, to some snickering, that I would need to miss a little work to attend the class.

The class was scheduled for right after work on a Monday, and so I jetted from my job a few minutes early, winging my way across town towards an hour of “edulactation.” I arrived just a couple minutes late, and opened the door to see my wife, our nurse instructor, and two other very pregnant women. And no other husbands. Apparently husbands don’t normally attend these things, I discovered. Perhaps because of their INABILITY TO BREASTFEED. Sigh. I took my seat next to my apologetic wife and prepared for uncomfortable conversations.

I think that if I was to give a title to the book of our childbirth experience, one of the front runners would definitely be “Interesting Characters.” Joining the long string of odd folks that have punctuated our journey, our breastfeeding instructor Janelle warmly greeted us. Janelle, in short, is VERY passionate about breastfeeding. I mean, VERY VERY passionate. Passionate in a crazy-eyes sort of way. I couldn’t help but chuckle at once again encountering such an odd soul in our birthing journey.

Janelle began by discussing every thing BUT breastfeeding. She is a very dedicated (fanatical) proponent of a concept she repeatedly referred to as “skin-to-skin.” This theory holds that newborn children perform best early in life by spending much of their time sleeping topless on Mom’s (or, in some cases Dad’s – although I think she was just trying to include me in the conversation since I was the ONLY MAN THERE) bare chest. The infant apparently will sync their heart beat and breathing to match the parent on whose chest they lay, and this process leads to a calmer, less colicky child. In addition, studies have shown that skin-to-skin babies score higher on their SATs, sucessfully answer 20% more Jeopardy questions (on average) than their peers, and some even develop the ability to telepathically communicate with small cats and rabbits. The advantage, as Janelle explained them to us, was clear and unquestionable. After the 20 minute lecture, I certainly had no questions.

After our lengthy side discussion, we finally began discussing the process of breastfeeding. I’m sure it was a deep and informative discussion, punctuated with diagrams, “Boppy” pillows, and prosthetic, knitted breasts. But I’ll be honest. I zoned out for most of it. I mean, honestly, it was a 45 minute discussion on “latching,” “proper lactation angles” and “breastpump etiquette.” I sat there, mostly trying to resist the urge to ask the questions that I could not block from my mind:

• If she eats a ton of chocolate, can she emit chocolate milk? What about strawberries?

• While breastfeeding, if one breast runs dry, does it make a sucking sound like a straw at the bottom of an empty glass? On a related note, does it deflate?

• If she drinks a ton of cow’s milk, will it still be her milk, or will it be the cow’s milk?

• I’ve heard a lot about skin-to-skin. Can you spend 30 minutes explaining it again?

Well, in any case, before I knew it, the lecture was over and the mothers-to-be were comparing notes on how awful they were feeling, how their backs were hurting, ribs were getting kicked by their unborn children, and their overall discomfort at this late stage in their pregnancy. Then they all started to look at me with those men did this to us look. I saw the writing on the wall, grabbed my wife’s hand and high-tailed it out of there before “pregnancy rage” claimed another innocent husband’s life.

Are we now 100% prepared for the challenges and rewards of breastfeeding? Probably not. But I look to history, and the success of millions, if not billions of mothers throughout time that have gotten this to work, and I have faith that we can get it done.

Or at least that Kim can. Remember, I don’t have the parts…

Before our tour, there was still a few subjects left to cover. Last class, we spent most of the time talking about the actual birth, and the medical interventions we could possibly encounter during that process. This day, the topic du jour was what happens immediately after birth, beyond the “unclenching”, euphoric relief, cigar smoking, and football spiking and customary victory dance.

The protocol these days, following the expungement, is to take the baby, still soaked in the amniotic sauce (with a hint of lime), and place it right on the mother’s bare chest. Apparently, the newly birthed child can, in some cases, immediately breastfeed, which seems silly because if I entered the world after sitting in a pool for nine months, I’d probably head for the bathroom. Or at least take a shower to get this goo off of me.

As the baby sits on Mom’s chest, the uterus contracts a few more times and out comes the polenta, which, if prepared correctly, goes great with sausage and cabbage. What’s that? Oh. Placenta. This oozing sac of blood vessels served as the filter between Mom and baby, and is apparently quite fascinating to look at. Our instructor encouraged the husbands to inquire about inspecting the placenta, as it is “pretty cool.” Instead, I’m pretty sure it’s “pretty gross.” She also mentioned that the placenta, being once a part of my wife’s uterus, was therefore our property and that we could take it home if we wanted to, ostensibly to plant a new tree with, or put in a shadow box and hang over the mantle. I quickly raised my eyebrows and turned at the idea, but Kim was already shaking her head no.

Within the first hour of birth, the state mandates that two things occur. The first is that the wriggling bundle of joy get jabbed with a needle that contains Vitamin K, which is given to help prevent clots from forming. Apparently having no teeth or the impulse to chew prevents them from taking Flintstones Newborn Vitamins, thus the syringe. The second thing that this new member of humanity gets is an unceremonious gob of ointment pushed into its eyes. Welcome to the planet – plop – good luck seeing it – this’ll teach you to trust adults.

Parents also have the option (recommended of course) to have their hour old child given the Hepatitis B vaccine shortly after birth. Hepatitis B is generally contracted one of two ways, either through sexual intercourse, or sharing intravenous needles, both of which must be rampant occurences in the hospital’s newborn nursery. Why else would you vaccinate a baby that just entered the world, encountered bright lights, loud noises, smiling giants, been pricked with vitamins and bleary eyed with ointment? Makes sense to me.

We were also told that some babies come out jaundiced, which means that they appear to have rolled around extensively in the dandelion patch. This is not a serious issue, and is solved by them sleeping under bili lights, which I have since learned share no relation with billy clubs.

After a lengthly discussion of what to expect in the hospital, we talked about the first few weeks at home. It turns out that during these first few weeks, Mom is a seeping, bloody mess. Seriously. Rubber sheet messy. Bloody adult diapers messy. Not only that, she can’t do a heckuva lot. No stairs. No driving. No cleaning. No badminton. Basically all she can do is sleep, eat, feed the baby, and bleed. This is the father’s “time to shine,” pitching in to clean the house, prepare meals, unclog the toilet, learn trigonometry, etc. I, of course, will do none of these things. That’s what visiting relatives are for.

To wrap up our final lecture, the instructors passed around a bag full of various items. Each couple took two items from the bag, and then we went around the room explaining what the items represented in terms of initial baby care. For example, a water bottle represented that mom needs to remain hydrated. A collection of balls of various sizes represented the growing size of baby’s stomach. A child’s diaper represented the unbelievable amount and variety of poop our child will generate. A set of keys and a passport represented “Dad’s last resort.” Our item was a pair of baby shoes, that had a delightful poem about the joys of parenting, and served as the end of our formal lectures.

After a short food break, it was time for the main event. We were led out of the building and across the street to Crouse Hospital, where the “magic” will happen. We came in via the main entrance, and took the elevator up to the labor and delivery floor. In a non emergency situation, we would proceed to admitting first, and then take the elevator up to the delivery center. Since we live close to the hospital however, our plan is to wait until the last possible minute, so we most likely won’t make it to admitting – delivering the baby in the elevator on the way up will probably preclude it.

Our first stop on the labor and delivery floor was one of the birthing suites.  The room looks benign enough – a bathroom, hospital bed, sink and tv.  A nice landscape painting adorned the wall, and a rustic clock ticked serenely on the wall.  It was sterile, but idyllic, a place of serenity and comfort.

But then our instructors began demonstrating the extended features of this ‘chamber.’  First off, the bed is actually ‘Pregatron,’ an alien transforming robot exiled on our planet, and with the press of a few buttons can actually tilt upright, grasp your wife with its mechanical claws, and literally shake the baby out of her. Everything else in the room has a similar secret purpose.  The landscape painting slides away to reveal a neonatal oxygen system.  The cabinets over the bed conceal emergency medical instruments.  The clock, when looked out properly, tells the nurse when to go on break.  The instructors also brought out a few of the birth assistance ‘devices’ – the birthing ball, the birthing stool, and th squat bar.  Who knew labor involved this much calisthenics.  I have a feeling Kim’s lats will be stellar when we’re through with this process.

After the birthing suite, we took a short around the floor to see a few other sites – the nutrition room, stocked with snacks for the laboring mothers, the blanket warmer, and the nurses station.  We turned the corner to head for the stairway and were detained for a moment as the instructors chatted with the nurses.

It was at this point that we noticed ‘them.’  A husband pushing his clearly in labor wife on a wheelchair. She was in a lot of pain, moaning and bobbing her head side to side.  Her husband looked ready to bolt.

I looked around at the other folks in the class.  All of the women had this indescribable, deer-in-the-headlights look of fear, and each was absently rubbing their stomachs as they stole furtive glances at this pair, their future.  The husbands were a mixed bag, some with a sympathetic look on their faces, nodding in encouragement to this imminent father, while others were stroking their wives hair, trying to help them hold onto their fragile psyche in the face of times to come.  And of course there was me, noting all of it for this blog entry.

We quickly were ushered into the staircase and down to the postpartum floor.  We were taken past the nursery, where a newborn was being ‘handled’ by a nurse.  The wives faces brightened at this sight – the goal of all this misery.  It was the husbands turn to wear the face of fear at this, the end of their Wii playing days.

We moved forward into a hospital room to see where we can expect to convalesce.  Unlike the “birthing lair” we saw before, this room is pretty much a plain old hospital room, with nothing special to note.  If we are lucky, we’ll have a room to ourselves.  If not, we’ll have to share with another couple and their screaming baby.  We were shuffled out of the room quickly – turns out it was earmarked for someone having a c-section upstairs.  I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear that 20 strangers traipsed through her room minutes before she came back from serious abdominal surgery.

And that was it.  We took the elevator down to the basement, followed a maze and emerged in a parking garage.  After a quick goodbye we headed to the car, diploma in hand and confident in the knowledge that we were now adequately prepared for all that lay ahead of us.

Yeah, right.

Before delving into the various options of ‘pain management’, they had us play a little game. We were split into two groups, husbands on one side, wives on the other. The task was to list one ‘comfort’ for each letter of the alphabet. I was chosen as the husband team’s scribe, undoubtedly due to my fine penmanship and rugged good looks, and the fact that I volunteered. Pen in hand, my team prepared for ‘alphabattle.’

We had an interesting mix of guys. There was me, of course, and you already can guess my contributions. L is for liquor, for example. (Dad’s comfort is important too). Then we had studious guy, who knew all the ‘right’ answers (E is for efflourage, P is for peritoneal massage). Johnny Addict sat to my left (S is for shrooms, X is for Xanax). And of course there was sensitive guy, our ace in the hole. This guy knew a synonym for ‘awww’ in every letter (C is for caress, N is for nurture, E is for encouragement, V is for vomit). Within a few minutes, our page was filled, and the instructors began going through, letter by letter, comparing our answers to our wives answers.

As they revealed their answers, it became clear that a) they were not as talented at this game as the men and b) they were clearly expecting labor to be intensely painful. Here are a few of their responses:

A is for Analgesic
E is for Epidural
L is for local anesthia
W is for ‘We’re wusses’

The instructors, of course, agreed wholeheartedly with these answers, largely I assume because disageeing with third trimester pregnant women is never a good plan. But they practically FAWNED over our answers. Plus we had an answer for every letter (X is for xylophone, Z is for zither – music is a comfort) while the women came up short. So the husbands totally won. A small victory in a war all husbands ultimately lose, but a cause for celebration nevertheless.

After the game we returned to more regular lecture environment, as the instructor ran down the various options and interventions that may occur. At the base level, they offer the laboring mother drugs that simply cut the pain a bit. These get increasingly more effective up the ‘hallucination’ scale, starting at ‘I’m floating in the clouds’ all the way to ‘I’m back in Nam.’ After the drugs, the next option is the epidural, which is so well known and effective several of the women in the class asked if they could have it ‘right now.’

To demonstrate what our instructor termed ‘the package deal’ of epidurals, she asked for husband volunteers. Of course I jumped at the opportunity (after I was randomly piked and forced to, of course).  I was brought to the front of the room, given a gown and shower cap, and then administered an epidural. It was an odd sensation having a needle pushed into my spine – in fact, it didn’t hurt at all. I’d imagine having it ‘actually’ administered might be a tad more uncomfortable, but who knows.

After my ‘epidural’ I was laid down in a hospital bed, and then the rest of the package came. An IV to keep me hydrated. Pitocin to move things along. A Foley catheter to drain the bladder I can no longer feel. A fetal monitor. That hook thing to puncture my amniotic sac. A martini to take the edge off.  A billy club to subdue my husband.

Finally it was time to push. Two more husbands ‘volunteered’ to hold my legs back as I ‘gave birth.’

Honestly, I don’t see what the fuss is about. Labor, other than being monstrously humiliating, doesn’t hurt at all. If nothing else, the exercise reiterated to my wife the reasons she didn’t favor an epidural, and reinforced the reason she married me – my extremely large capacity for humiliation and ability to sustain large amounts of dignity loss.  That and my aforementioned rugged good looks.  And penmanship.

After a short snack (which this week we provided – cheese, and lots of it) we again convened for some labor exercises. The main focus today was ‘the urge to push,’ which of course we weren’t actually supposed to do, because Lost was on tonight and nobody wanted to miss it due to ‘premature labor.’ In the midst of explaining the process, our instructor casually informed us that she ‘loves’ pushing out babies, which of course was met with stunned silence and furtive glances around the room.  One poor woman passed out at the thought.

In any case, the process of pushing isn’t all that complicated, as it seems your uterus does all the work. It attempts, rather violently, to expel its writhing contents through a hole that’s slightly too small. I’m interested to see how this plays out, imagining this in my head as the instructor describes it. All the women in the room have this pained expression on their face at this point, and are exaperatedly rubbing their bellies.

Ah. This is going to be fun, I can see that now.

For one of us at least.

‘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?