As about-to-be parents, Matthew Osgood reveals more about how he and his wife had a day of their life sucked away.
From the onset, our instructor Jan told us that we’d be getting out early. This was welcomed news for a number of reasons, not the least of which it was a beautiful, sunny summer day. This made me optimistic and like her a little more. Every time she’d finish a topic, she’d mention “getting through this quickly” with the goal being early release.
“Quickly,” to Jan meant two hours on breathing techniques. I couldn’t fathom would the intensive session entailed.
I’m a horrible student. I get impatient and antsy. It’s been a really long time since I’ve been in a class or a meeting that requires me to sit and listen and participate all day long. Remember school? What was fun about school? Nothing. School sucked, right? I can’t be alone here in my thinking. The breathing and anatomy appetizers are good and everything, but let’s get to the meat and potatoes, which is, I should note here, deemed most important to my narcissistic mind because it’s the information I want to know. Thus, it’s the most crucial stuff.
“My biggest concern is when to go to the hospital,” I start. “This being the first child, we’re obviously new to this. What are the signs that we absolutely have to go?”
This launched a series of scenarios and anecdotes and contingency plans from Jan. Every scenario was covered. If I’d asked her how to get out of the hospital, she’d probably catapult herself into a similar type of diatribe. “Well, if we’re escaping a fire then we … If it’s a flood we … if there is some sort of biochemical terrorist attack…”
She’d also do that thing that teachers would do when she’d notice students nodding off. She’d look at you and say, “You understand this, Matt?” to which you’d nod and say, “Sure, sure, of course, cervixes and — or is it cervi — and stuff.”
Jan gave us, eventually, her answer for when to go to the hospital.
“But, that’s just me,” she added. “You should really ask your doctor that question.”
It’s been six hours and I just got the answer to my first question. Essentially, that answer was, “Ask someone else.” Six hours for what could have been a 30 second conversation when we went to our next appointment.
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The oldest couple there was clearly struggling. She was struggling and probably going into early labor (see? I did learn something). There is nothing that Jan wanted more than for these people to go into labor. It had never happened to her that a student of hers went into labor. Jan was actively rooting for this to happen, asking questions of this couple and, it seemed, convincing them that it was time.
It’s been six hours and I just got the answer to my first question. Essentially, that answer was, “Ask someone else.”
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I don’t blame that couple for wanting to have the baby that day. We did too. My wife, at 37 weeks pregnant, turned to me at one point and said, “We’re already here. Let’s do this today.” We are officially at the point in pregnancy that we want it to be over. I can’t imagine the physical, mental, and emotional toll that accompanies carrying a child. Women are doing miraculous work. But what about me? I’m charged with doing everything around here. I make dinner, I get AppleTV loaded up with the shows we (by that I mean she) like to watch, I handle the bulk of the entertainment. We need this little guy to come out and play with us.
“Ooooo, let’s get some ice chips,” Jan says. She’s clearly fucking winging this class.
Back to the breathing, we go. Our wives hold fistfuls of ice chips. This exercise helps them focus on their breathing while the ice numbs their hands. She wants to know if the they got used to the ice, or did the breathing techniques she taught them perform the trick of mind over matter. There was only one right answer to this query.
“I think my hands just got used to the ice being there,” said one girl.
“But I think the breathing techniques helped mostly,” Jan countered.
“I kind of just embraced the cold and accepted it,” said another girl, choosing to adopt the Zen principle of acceptance. She could stand on hot coals, I assumed, and just embrace the heat.
“But you’re breathing. You’re using the methods we just learned,” Jan told her.
It was then that I realized that we didn’t bring four pillows to this class because we needed four pillow to make our seats on the ground comfortable; we brought four pillows to this class because it would make too much of a scene if we tried to leave early.
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Before we could get to visiting the rooms that we were promised after lunch, which seems like decades ago, Jan needed to show us the VHS of a live birth. If VHS denotes to you a time long ago and you assume the movie is going to be a similar one, or even the same exact one that you watched as a 9th grader in health class, you’re absolutely correct. If you’re assuming that everything that could go wrong, including the tape not being rewound or the VCR wasn’t connected properly, would go wrong, you’re also right.
“There are three births,” Jan told us, “But I’m only going to show you two because I know you’re eager to take a tour and get out early.”
Each birth took about 15 minutes. The kids who were delivered in this movie are probably the same age as I am. Their mother’s vaginas are on my screen right now. Because I’m an adolescent, I giggled the entire movie, laughing at the ludicrous voiceovers and bad haircuts. My wife whispered for me to leave the room at one point. No one found this movie as delightful as I did.
Because I’m an adolescent, I giggled through the entire birth movie, laughing at the ludicrous voiceovers and bad haircuts on the VHS.
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“Remember,” Jan started, aiming this command indirectly at me, “These are real people. People who other people know.”
I have no idea what this statement — provided verbatim — means. Were these people her friends? Is she the one who knows them? Was she the one in the mythical third scene that we weren’t watching?
Mercifully, the movie ended with two happy births. There was supposedly some difference between the scenes, but I couldn’t exactly figure it out. Both births looked awful, with lots of sweating and unnecessary and gross vagina shots. Didn’t these women know they were going to be shown to people for, apparently, forever?
Finally, we went on our tour. Officially, we were late. The class, which we were told would end early, was running 10 minutes late and we hadn’t even gotten to the tour yet. Our friendly real estate agent Jan described each element of the room like she was on House Hunters. “Ooo, look at the crown molding!”
But this was it. Everything she said was a means to the end of our birthing class. Every time she ended a sentence, it was like those seminar classes in college where the professor would end with a phrase like, “And that’s what started World War I” and when you looked at the clock and realized the class was almost over and you think, “Wow, right on time,” but then the professor launches into a new sequence, “… And so Woodrow Wilson …” as the whole class sighs. This is the longest day of my life.
I’m visibly annoyed. I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I’m the kid in the back of the high school English class bored to the point of pain. My chest hurts, I’m hungry. I’m annoyed. I want these people to stop asking question. I want this woman to stop talking and take the hint from my sighs and snark. I want this woman next to me’s water to break, so that Jan can be the hero and we can all go home.
It’s 5:30, one half hour after the class was supposed to leave. Technically, I could have been home by now, pouring a well-deserved beer down my throat if the class ended on time.
Me: I guess I learned a little bit about what’s happening. And it’s nice to know when we need to go to the hospital and what to bring and what the rooms look like. Wife: True, but I already knew most of that stuff though. It’s all online.
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“That’s about it,” she says. The crowd is silent and we make our way toward the elevator. We’re like zombies, drained of all emotion. There are people in the morgue more alert than we are at this point.
We said thanks and goodbye and sprinted toward our car, as if we’d be suckered into another round of anatomy and breathing if we didn’t get away fast enough. I let out a big sigh.
“Oh God that was awful,” I told my wife as we backed out of the space and pulled out of the garage. “It’s over, though, and I guess some of that knowledge is going to be useful, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “It will.”
“And I guess I learned a little bit about what’s happening. And it’s nice to know when we need to go to the hospital and what to bring and what the rooms look like.”
“True, but I already knew most of that stuff though. It’s all online.”
Stupid New Parents – Part 1
Photo: Nate Grigg/Flickr
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