So we survived the first of our three-part childbirth classes. And we didn't die -- well, we almost, did. Of laughter.
The didactic portion of the class was all business, and mostly a redux of what KB and I have already read in the "what to expect when you're becoming a farty whale" books. But then...the film. Lordy, it was a two-thumbs-up comedy. Warning: spoiler alert!
First of all, I place it in the early- to mid-eighties, based on the quantity and quality of the perms and the amount of untamed bush. Because, by the way, these ladies all liked to give birth naked (although I guess we would have seen their ladybits either way, given that it is a birthing film and all.) It was very Lamaze-oriented, as the dads were all bragging about their coaching abilities in a totally self-congratulatory way. My favorite dad character -- let's call him "Super Dave" -- gloated about his invented technique, which he called (quite enthusiastically) the "In Your Face" method. Picture Super Dave, in your face, counting your breaths and telling you when to relax. Visualize his counting prop: one hand, also in your face, counting with one finger, two fingers, three fingers, then fist pump! I whispered to KB, "It would be a shame for me to have to raise this baby alone." He got the hint.
Then there was the greatest scene of all in this rom-com. A woman, in the throes of pushing out her baby, saw the head delivered in a mirror held up by the nurse at her feet. And in between primal screams, she sobbed, "That doesn't even look like a baby!" KB and I were doubled over in laughter. I told KB later that I would make a terrible OB, because my immediate reaction to this woman would have been, "Oh, my fucking gawd! What is that? Is that a hoof?"
Finally there was stage 3 labor, which no one thought was funny. I am going to instruct my OB and delivery nurses to please NOT bother showing me the placenta, as I will take their word for it that it's awesome in every way. Seriously, I'm good. No need. KB blurted out loud while watching the film that it looked like a brisket. Which led to a series of disgusting jokes about putting it in the smoker. Or maybe we'll go Mel Gibson on it and bury it in the back yard under a tree (first, we'll scream at it and call it a motherfucking golddigging whore with fake tits!). I give the dog two days to dig it up and gross us all out -- what's your over/under?
Next week we learn about pain and, more importantly, pain relief. Yes, please.