I'm aware of three different classes you can choose from: Hypno-birthing, Bradley, and Lamaze. Lamaze seems like it would be the least painful--and by least painful I mean its over the fastest. Of course, we didn't even sample Lamaze, because that would have been too easy. And god knows that if there is one way pregnant women don't do things, its the easy way. If your wife suggests Lamaze, just say yes quickly, suck it up and you'll be done. Then pinch yourself, wake up and laugh.
I was presented with the question of which I thought sounded better, hypno or Bradley. Well, my first thought was, Which is longer? And like a dumbass, I asked the question. That was not the response that my wife was looking for. Even though I tried to plead the case that I was wanting to select the longer class so as to be more thorough, she didn't seem to believe me. Pregnancy does not make your wife less intelligent--just less reasonable.
My wife suggested that I had maybe better do some research before I ventured my next guess as to what the right answer was. She already knew which class we were taking, she was just sending me on one of the various fool's errands of pregnancy. Like the king sending a brave knight to slay a dragon to secure his daughter's hand, when we all know there's no fucking dragon in the first place, and the king is an asshole. Basically, there is no right answer in this situation, so since you're in for some trouble anyway my advice is to have a beer and watch some sports on TV.
Turns out my advice, which I followed because, let's face it, I'm generally right, sucked. Instead of weathering the storm of the grumpy pregnant lady and going to whichever class she wanted, which I had hoped would be the outcome, my wife decided that we should sample both classes. Fucking fantastic.
We went to hypno-birthing and it was pretty terrible. Possible-witch instructor, annoying classmates, Monday night from 7-9 for five weeks and at the time I was working from 5am-4pm. I didn't think Bradley could possibly be any worse, but oh sweet Jesus was I wrong. Again.
Bradley class was every Sunday afternoon from 2-6, and the first class we went to was on the first Sunday of NFL playoffs. I was thrilled, nowhere I'd rather have been. At least the piece of shit Bears were so bad last year that they didn't make it out of the joke division that is the NFC North, so I didn't have to worry about cheering against them and risk getting my ass kicked at whatever bar I would have been at. So we get to the class, and first things first, I ask the instructor how many weeks the class runs. Twelve. Blind fucking terror. Just get me back to hypno-birthing, please god, I promise to be a good boy. I blanched, started shaking and began considering ways to fake my own death.
Of course, we were the first to arrive, so we got to chat with the instructor for a while as the rest of the class straggled in up to fifteen minutes late. And Mary was as big a freak as she looked like she'd be, which was...a really freaking big freak. She had a forehead as though she belonged on Mount Rushmore, a general vacant look in her eyes and a permanently slack jaw that caused her mouth to hang open either like she was a moron or a fly-trap, or as the case may be, both. Anything that she might be able to teach, I had no interest in learning.
As the rest of the class filed in, I realized that my wife and I were the only two people there who had a chance of passing for normal. Let's discuss the cast of characters in ascending order of oddity. The least strange couple looked eccentric, but not too bad. She was a teacher, he an AV engineer, whatever that means. He had some odd, odd facial hair going on--the full beard but with various segments shaved out for some reason. She has totally average looking, and I thought they could be okay, but then they said they'd driven 45 minutes to be there and had spent the whole day at their church. NFL playoffs. What the fuck are you doing with your lives?
The next odder couple were uncomfortable to share a room with. He was clearly gay, she clearly in denial and pregnant. Ladies, if your man asks you to wear a strap-on and/or likes Clay Aiken, these are both red flags, and you should run. Don't marry him and get pregnant that one time you have sex when you're wearing a Ricky Martin mask. At one point something upset the woman very much and she began crying, then left the room. She stood some distance down the hall audibly bawling, but-- rather than, I dunno, comfort her?--gay guy sits there pretending nothing is happening, intently watching the inane video. Not even any attractive men in it...um, so my wife tells me. The instructor eventually went to talk to the crying lady, leaving us all writhing in awkwardness.
The oddest couple, though, we straight out of a time warp. They both looked like they could have been extras on one of the early episodes of Roseanne. The guy was fat and disheveled, wearing a stained t-shirt and stonewashed tapered jeans. The lady was wearing a super-baggy sweatshirt, tracksuit pants, and a turtleneck. Big hoop earrings. She also had large, perfectly round glasses, the kind which I haven't seen for a good ten years, and a haircut to match. Ponytail, bangs, dandruff. Awesome. They were the last to come in to class, and they carried several grocery bags with them. They proceeded to unpack a full pre-made meal: a complete rotisserie chicken, corn, coleslaw, a loaf of Wonderbread. Mmm. Nutritious and delicious. I thought perhaps people took turns bringing snacks and they were just a little strange. Nope, no one else was eating but them, and boy did they eat. The worked on the chicken for at least 3 of the 4 hours of class and I've heard dogs handle chicken bones with more eloquence.
Then there was the class material. Holy shit. Here are some highlights:
- Husbands, be supportive of your wife.
Break
- Try to remain calm.
Break
- Let's make a rice-sock (literally a sock filled with rice, no shit) that you can microwave and put on your wife's back to help ease pain.
Break
- I decide to hang myself with shoelaces but am crushed when I realize I wore loafers. Douchebag!
It really was the rice-sock that put me over the edge. It took over an hour for four couples to manage to fill a gym sock with rice, tie it shut, and microwave it. I despair for these peoples' kids. They have probably starved because I estimate that it would take their parents at least three hours to change a diaper, and then another two hours to get the kid dressed. Three hours of chicken eating later, and you have a newborn on the verge of death.
Luckily, my wife was as aghast with the whole situation as I was, and we made a pact to never return and instead go to hypnobirthing. It was pretty terrible too--the instructor was more likely than not a witch, and has moles on her face that speak (the one on her chin is a pretty cool guy)--but nothing could ever be as bad as Bradley class. So future dads, listen up. Try to dissuade your wife from taking a class. My wife ended up having a C-section because my daughter was breach, but even if she had had a natural birth I don't think the class would have helped. You really think me telling her to go to her happy place (that's right, happy place) when something the size of a grapefruit is passing through something a whole lot smaller is going to help? Fuck, I get scared even thinking about it. But the point is, you're probably going to have to take a class, just make sure you avoid Bradley!
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