Pandy and Andy create a baby...

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Back to School

On with the tie, long socks, and Bata tiger prints. Its school time.

One of the rights of passage for first timers these days appears to be the horse-piddle run birth classes. If you havent done at least one course you're just not one of the cool gang. This was our first class of three.

At first we were a little apprehensive as we'd heard all the horror stories of graphic clockwork orange-like hours of watching women in labour, blood soaked babies and endless episiotomies (well, actually, no one has mentioned seeing an episiotomy, just a jittery mind covering all bases).

The class had about 10 big bellied mums-to-be including one who turned out to be a former soccer teamate of Mistress P ("oh I thought i recognised you...") who we had arvo tea with and was there with a female birth partner.

"Mmmmm...," thinks AB. "Womens soccer + female birth partner + St Kilda market Thai fisherman pants = a wonderful new age couple who really should be legally allowed to wed (you moron Howard)."

"Oh my husband cant make it - this is my trainee-midwife friend..."


We were also introduced to a young-and-in-love couple from Laverton.

"How many weeks to go for you guys?" we asked.

"Two!" they exclaimed all too happily.

(AB again:) "Errr... did anyone tell you this is a 3 week course?"

Turns out that 90% of the first class was being shown where in the horse-piddle you will go into labour (as well as the all important parking spot for drop off), sitting about talking about labour, seeing pictures of people in labour, looking at a myrid of (karma sutra-like) positions for people to use in labour ("doing it vertically means its up to 30% easier"), playing with models of a pelvic girdle and seeing how a baby - and later placenta - could stuff through it during labour, constructing a list of the steps of labour, trying out fit balls as a possible labour helping and baby-swivellig device, and, at the end of the whole shebang (and just when you thought you were getting out alive), the final 10% was of course...

A video of a woman in labour.

This was an "easy" one we were told. A good old British home birth, with seemingly endless midwives all dressed in these redickalus 19th century nurse uniforms (the kind Benny Hill chased after each week), lots of newspaper spread over the floor ("Geez P, that can't be a good sign..."), and dad wandering in mid contraction with a cup of tea + biscuit (for himself) chirping "Think we'll be done by eight luv?" (I gathered there was a soccer game/eastenders episode he wanted to watch or something.)

The woman paced about and did the chicken dance (really...), told the midwives which of the kama sutra-like positions was her preferred option ("I'm easy dear" said midwife, as though she'd get a say in it anyway), got lots of back rubs mid contraction including one from her own 3 year old daughter (AB: "Crikey - thats gunna leave some mental scars..."), then eventually lay back, stripped off and, with a bit of "Dont push" "I have to!!!!" "Dont push" "I have to!!!!" "Just wait" "I $*&^% cant!!!" ...plop. Theres your kid.

Dad didnt even spill his tea.

This all seemed to have a marked effect on Mistress P, mostly because she thought Mr. Squeemish-guts (a.k.a hubby) would be trying to hold back the old nausea tide at the sight of all the yucky stuff.

In actual fact he was somewhat fascinated.

(But thankful it wasn't the episiotomy episode.) Print this post

No comments: