Labor Pains: My Birthing Classes Are Scaring The Crap Out Of Me

birthing classesLast night I showed up to my first birth class, my husband poring over the packet promising us steamed salmon and cheesecake as some kind of emotional eating reward for successful (whatever that means”¦) delivery of our son. My baby is due in November.

Though I have had some serious fears about the pain of delivery, I have to say that there is a wealth of excellent documentaries and books which describe owning the experience, determining what pain management choices might be best, and overall simply remembering that this is a special process between me, my husband and baby. In essence, this is our show. Knowing how many choices we have and arming ourselves with information has helped insulate us from the terror of what is actually about to occur.

So the class begins: The PowerPoint was swift, the fruit plate plentiful (god bless pineapple for pregnant women amirite?), and everything felt excellent until our instructor, a registered nurse with 20+ years experience plus additional certification, starts in on what all of us should expect for our first time in the delivery room.

”You’re all first time moms, right?” she smiles broadly in her pink scrubs. We all nod, looking around at one another for confirmation. ”Ok, so you may THINK you’re in labor. But you’re probably not. No, you’re not in labor until you are white knuckling it at my desk. Understand? You should not be able to SPEAK because it will hurt so bad. THEN you are in REAL labor. OK, Mommies?”

I started to feel that pineapple churning. Oh god.

”OK, so what I am passing around now is the dilation license plate. If you look at the circles, they will show you how big you need to get to be ready for baby. See the 10 centimeters? This is where we want you to start pushing.”

Now I am confused. I don’t see what she is talking about. Rather, I see a rectangular plastic tray in her hands, and her acrylic nail pointing to something reminiscent of the outline of a small salad dish.

”So this is how you will KNOW you are in REAL labor, OK Mommies? Don’t come to me and say ”˜I think I’m in labor,’ because when you’re in labor you will KNOW for sure.”

It was in that moment I realized what was actually being said to me, and that bastard fear started creeping in and messing with my carefully constructed pre-labor serenity-mind. I stared at the salad plate, my mouth slightly open, shocked.

”Ha! I see Lee-ah over there is not loving this, but remember mommies: it is ONE DAY OF YOUR LIFE! And when it is all said and done, you’ll have this beautiful little baby”¦I mean, it will be the HAPPIEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE!”

I turned to my husband, ””¦and here I thought it would be the day I successfully defend my doctoral dissertation”¦”

On the way home, I cried and screeched my rage and fear.

”Maybe I should drive?” my husband suggested, trying to be helpful.

”No! That Barbie Doll is telling me that I need to ENDURE in order to earn my badge of womanhood.”

”I didn’t hear her saying that exactly”¦” he started, but he could tell this was something about women, something about identity, and way deeper than explicit transcriptions from the class.

”The message we get is this: SUCK IT UP. This is what women DO, it is what we are meant to do and so it should not be this awful-sounding scary thing. And not only that, but you need to take it like a champ and then somehow be grateful you went through it because your whole worth is wrapped up in that little bundle under the heat lamp over there””your baby. Isn’t it everything you ever wanted?”

Um, no. Not really.

”But what is the problem, honey, you are a woman. In middle school health class when they went over procreation, didn’t you acknowledge that this was, at the very least, something you could possibly do, just by way of biology alone?”

I thought about it for second. ”Yeah, they also told me I could be anything I wanted when I grew up, but there was a nagging piece of me that said that although I was capable of selling lots and lots of Girl Scout Cookies, I might not end up in sales. Or that, gee I was such a great swimmer, but might not make it to the Olympics.”

Basically, they told us a ton of crap in middle school, why would I suddenly start believing all of it? All I ever wanted to do was read and write, debate and date moderately geeky dudes. I had zero interest in babies. Ever. But now suddenly, this birth is proving ground: the place to ”claim my victory” as a nurse midwife says on the famous documentary, The Business of Being Born. And what happens if the pain is too great and I pass out, or the baby is unhealthy”¦am I not victorious? Is victory simply enduring the pain, or is it that I also have to be happy about it? Is it a healthy baby at all costs or do I get a vote in how comfortable I am?

What concerns me is the expectation that I will simply ”be a trooper” as my innards become dishware while my husband and friends look on. My womanhood will be proven only by Navy SEAL-like dedication and endurance, followed by how strongly I concur that my final duty in life””childbearing””has been fulfilled. I can FINALLY die happy. Or something.

(photo: Alex James Bramwell/ Shutterstock)

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