(L)Amazingly, I made it to all six of our antenatal classes. I anticipated seemingly endless hours of whale sounds and deep-breathing exercises. But what I actually got was a good grounding on the birth process and some essential tips. There were, of course, a couple of incidents of group massage set to repetitive new-age sounds.
The second week was much the same as the first, and the third much the same as the second. And so on. But repetition works, dummies.
The second week was much the same as the first, and the third much the same as the second. And so on. But repetition works, dummies.
See? The big bonus is, you can rely on the other people there to ask the stupid question you’re afraid to ask. Such as ‘what is a contraction?’ ‘so, the placenta is attached to the baby?’ and ‘what month is it?’
There was a definite atmosphere of ‘expect the worst’. They forgot to tell us to ‘hope for the best’.
The actual labour was a lot shorter than we had been told to expect, clocking in at just over 6 hours. All that massage gubbins went straight out of the window, as Mrs Trousers and Trousers Jr. conspired to skip the boring stuff and go straight into delivery mode; she was 7-8 cm dilated when we arrived at the hospital. On entry into the delivery room Mrs Trousers promptly stripped naked and refused to be touched. I was so proud.
And that’s all there is to say, really. I’m just immensely proud of Mrs Trousers, and our son. Gotta go, I have a baby to stare at…
