Week four at the antenatal classes and I’m struggling to stay awake to be honest. It’s three and half-hours in a warm room at the end of a long working day. If nothing else it is getting us used to the first months of the kids life, when trying to stay awake will be a daily challenge.
The instructor tries to make it interactive, but as we’re all first time parents, nobody wants to make a fool of themselves by giving a stupid answer. I’d been on a training course at work the week before, which was not dissimilar to the baby class I now found myself in. Both were run by slightly smug individuals who spent most of the time asking patently obvious questions which nobody wanted to answer for fear of becoming the class pet. And both were training us for a scenario that would involve forgetting everything you’ve heard during training.
The only problem with these courses (both Baby and work related) is that they involve long periods of silence while the instructor waits for an answer to her longwinded questions. In most cases, she asks questions relating to the topic she is about to explain. This is pretty redundant and reminds me of the dark days of school when the teacher would ask “What is the capital of Poland?”, just before he was due to tell us anyway. That’s why many of the kids from my school went on to be experts at quizzes.
One of the questions she asked was “Who knows what the three day blues are”? After an age, I thought I’d venture a response. “Is it a music festival in Adelaide”?
All the blokes laughed but the women weren’t impressed. Later on we got on to the subject of breastfeeding. “How long does the average woman breastfeed for”? We were asked. Again the silence was deafening, so I answered “surely you’d do it until the baby was full”.
At that stage I think I was marked down as a troublemaker. You’re supposed to take these things seriously after all. There are male midwives apparently, but our classes were determinedly female. Childbirth is their thing after all and we men are there for support. Kind of like the little guy who runs onto the football pitch with a bottle of water and a sponge when somebody goes down injured. Nobody pays in to see that guy. They are there for the footballers.
On the third class, we got a tour of the hospital, which at least gave some attention to the guys. We were shown where to park when we rush the wife to hospital. How much it costs to park while she’s in labour (an arm and a leg) and where the canteen is. The birthing suites are nicely modern and well equipped and had enough gadgets to keep the men interested. Most of us were drawn to the TV and fridge. It made the space look a hotel room. The fridge apparently is provided so that we can bring in cooling packs and food for the expected 8 hour ordeal (only the woman giving birth gets fed by the hospital).
You could tell that all the blokes wanted to know if you could bring in a six-pack but nobody had the guts to ask.
They showed us where the baby will be weighed and measured and where the umbilical cord is cut. Many aspects of this whole fatherhood thing are coming as a shock to me. Not least is the fact that the modern man is supposed to take a pair of scissors to the cord connecting the baby to the placenta. I went white at the mention of this process. I’m an Accountant who feels faint when I get a paper cut. If I wanted to be a surgeon or a butcher, I would have trained to be one.
My squeamishness wasn’t helped when the midwife mentioned that the cord is like nylon rope and you had to give it a good snap with the scissors. When she said that some men liked to wait until the cord had stopped pulsing, I nearly passed out. I can see that I’m going to have to work on my resilience over the coming weeks.
The lowlight of the tour was when they took us to the post natal ward and explained that the mother and baby would only spend one night there. So if the baby is born at 10pm, we’ll be on the mean streets of Melbourne by 6pm the following evening with a small bundle of joy and two inexperienced parents.
But that’s life and I doubt if we’re the first parents to find ourselves in that position. The seven billion people clinging to this mortal planet all got here through similar means. Most people cope and that is what we will do.
We bought our first set of nappies last week and have started to think about all the other things we’ll need. Last Sunday we went to a Baby Expo, which was just about the most soul-destroying thing I’ve ever done. Most of the displays were designed to target your guilt or vanity. There were cots that cost as much as a small car, prams that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the Grand Prix circuit and a bewildering assortment of gadgets designed to monitor a baby’s temperature and heartbeat. It seems that the modern nursery is better equipped than an intensive care unit.
After we passed a stall selling aromatherapy treatments for infants, we were hit by a sudden weariness and sat down to enjoy a coffee. My eyes were drawn to a strange green figure on a stage to my right. It turned out to be Dorothy the Dinosaur. She danced and sang a tinny tune and the kids screamed their approval. Somehow I think I’ll be seeing a lot of Dorothy in the future. I can only hope that she knows a few Leonard Cohen songs.
Friday 28 October 2011
Thursday 6 October 2011
Waiting for the Stork Part 1
Helen runs our local breastfeeding class and is a slightly intimidating lady. “Do you have any experience with babies?” was her first question.
“Well, I used to be one” I said. “I was a lot fitter back then, mind you. I weighed 9 pounds, 4 ounces but I’ve been stacking it on ever since”.
She didn’t laugh. Years’ working as a midwife obviously numbs you to baby jokes. I was going to try my old favourite “I like babies but couldn’t eat a whole one” but thought better of it and slunk away to find a place among the other parent’s to be. It was a motley crew it must be said. Two lesbian couples who looked a little smug. This is probably due to the fact that they have double the output capacity of the other couples. Two women who arrived on their own and muttered darkly whenever they mentioned their absent husbands and just three blokes (including myself) who had turned up with their partners.
We were asked to introduce ourselves to the group and I had the honour of going first. “Despite my bulging tummy and man boobs”, I said. “I just want to point out that I’m not actually pregnant”.
The fat bloke two seats to my left glared at me and said “You’ve stolen my bloody line”.
I also mentioned that I’m Irish and breastfeeding is about as common there as ham sandwiches are in Israel. Helen looked at me as though I was a caveman and shook her head. I slunk back into my seat and buried my head in the handout we received at the start. The first thing I noticed was a glossy colour pamphlet with the heading “poo chart”. To my disappointment it contained nothing about a cuddly bear called Winnie, but had lots of pictures of excrement. I’m learning new things every day, but apparently it’s OK for a small child to have bright green poo, and they don’t even have to consume a bottle of Creme de Mente like their father does.
I now know what to expect when I open those 72 nappies that will be needed in the first week of juniors’ existence. To be honest, I’ll probably be more concerned about the condition of my own poo in that week as I don’t respond well to lack of sleep and a diet of takeaway food.
The class was pretty boring, until they introduced the live demonstration. Two women had brought along their little boys and we were expected to stand round in small groups and stare at their mammaries. I was a little uncomfortable. The last time I’d paid that much attention to boobies, outside of a loving relationship, was when I first stumbled upon a topless beach in Spain. I say stumbled, because I tripped over an elderly German tourist on a sun lounger while staring at somebody else.
The little boys were 4 and 8 months and the younger one fitted the breastfeeding stereotype that was in my head. It was brought to the feeding station and held there while he filled himself up. The older one was more mobile and he treated his Mother as more of a self service option. Every hour or so, he would crawl over to where she was sitting. He would then climb up and start unbuttoning her blouse. Pretty soon he’d be getting a mouth full while his Mother read a book. We were there to learn how to breastfeed but the thought struck me that she would actually have a harder job teaching her kid when to stop. If it’s that easy, why would you ever bother with the pureed vegetables that other kids are forced to eat?
Two weeks later, we went to our first ante natal class. I’ve been talking to a lot of Dads recently and one thing that always comes up is the horror movies that are shown at these classes. Thankfully, ours was more old school and the presenter decided to showcase her acting skills by playing out most of the action that would normally be seen on screen. This involved lots of moaning and face pulling that would not be out of place at a Pentecostal speaking in tongues festival.
The gathering here was much more conventional with equal numbers of Dads to Mums. Naturally, it focused on the females but we men did get the occasional mention. It’s our job to drive to the hospital (and home again two days later) and to be the chief forehead wiper and back masseuse. We are also expected to be strong and supportive, particularly during that point in labour when it is pointed out that all this pain is actually our fault.
In two weeks time, we get a tour of the hospital. Apparently these days, the delivery rooms are en suite with TVs and vending machines. We’re expecting an 18 hour process, so I might bring along a Box Set of the Sopranos. It’s all very different to when I was a nipper. Mammy won’t be lying down for the delivery it seems. These days you are encouraged to lie across a large exercise ball or to be on all fours. It all seems terribly undignified to me, but then there is very little dignity involved at the start of the baby making process either.
The first class was fun and it gave us a chance to meet other people in our area who are also close to becoming parents. We feel we are part of a club now that lets you into the secret of life. In a few weeks we will become responsible for a little person. To mould them and to teach them and to give them the confidence to set forth into this mad world.
But the thing I’m learning now is that this small child has so much to teach me. He or she will make me a Father and that’s the greatest gift I will ever receive.
“Well, I used to be one” I said. “I was a lot fitter back then, mind you. I weighed 9 pounds, 4 ounces but I’ve been stacking it on ever since”.
She didn’t laugh. Years’ working as a midwife obviously numbs you to baby jokes. I was going to try my old favourite “I like babies but couldn’t eat a whole one” but thought better of it and slunk away to find a place among the other parent’s to be. It was a motley crew it must be said. Two lesbian couples who looked a little smug. This is probably due to the fact that they have double the output capacity of the other couples. Two women who arrived on their own and muttered darkly whenever they mentioned their absent husbands and just three blokes (including myself) who had turned up with their partners.
We were asked to introduce ourselves to the group and I had the honour of going first. “Despite my bulging tummy and man boobs”, I said. “I just want to point out that I’m not actually pregnant”.
The fat bloke two seats to my left glared at me and said “You’ve stolen my bloody line”.
I also mentioned that I’m Irish and breastfeeding is about as common there as ham sandwiches are in Israel. Helen looked at me as though I was a caveman and shook her head. I slunk back into my seat and buried my head in the handout we received at the start. The first thing I noticed was a glossy colour pamphlet with the heading “poo chart”. To my disappointment it contained nothing about a cuddly bear called Winnie, but had lots of pictures of excrement. I’m learning new things every day, but apparently it’s OK for a small child to have bright green poo, and they don’t even have to consume a bottle of Creme de Mente like their father does.
I now know what to expect when I open those 72 nappies that will be needed in the first week of juniors’ existence. To be honest, I’ll probably be more concerned about the condition of my own poo in that week as I don’t respond well to lack of sleep and a diet of takeaway food.
The class was pretty boring, until they introduced the live demonstration. Two women had brought along their little boys and we were expected to stand round in small groups and stare at their mammaries. I was a little uncomfortable. The last time I’d paid that much attention to boobies, outside of a loving relationship, was when I first stumbled upon a topless beach in Spain. I say stumbled, because I tripped over an elderly German tourist on a sun lounger while staring at somebody else.
The little boys were 4 and 8 months and the younger one fitted the breastfeeding stereotype that was in my head. It was brought to the feeding station and held there while he filled himself up. The older one was more mobile and he treated his Mother as more of a self service option. Every hour or so, he would crawl over to where she was sitting. He would then climb up and start unbuttoning her blouse. Pretty soon he’d be getting a mouth full while his Mother read a book. We were there to learn how to breastfeed but the thought struck me that she would actually have a harder job teaching her kid when to stop. If it’s that easy, why would you ever bother with the pureed vegetables that other kids are forced to eat?
Two weeks later, we went to our first ante natal class. I’ve been talking to a lot of Dads recently and one thing that always comes up is the horror movies that are shown at these classes. Thankfully, ours was more old school and the presenter decided to showcase her acting skills by playing out most of the action that would normally be seen on screen. This involved lots of moaning and face pulling that would not be out of place at a Pentecostal speaking in tongues festival.
The gathering here was much more conventional with equal numbers of Dads to Mums. Naturally, it focused on the females but we men did get the occasional mention. It’s our job to drive to the hospital (and home again two days later) and to be the chief forehead wiper and back masseuse. We are also expected to be strong and supportive, particularly during that point in labour when it is pointed out that all this pain is actually our fault.
In two weeks time, we get a tour of the hospital. Apparently these days, the delivery rooms are en suite with TVs and vending machines. We’re expecting an 18 hour process, so I might bring along a Box Set of the Sopranos. It’s all very different to when I was a nipper. Mammy won’t be lying down for the delivery it seems. These days you are encouraged to lie across a large exercise ball or to be on all fours. It all seems terribly undignified to me, but then there is very little dignity involved at the start of the baby making process either.
The first class was fun and it gave us a chance to meet other people in our area who are also close to becoming parents. We feel we are part of a club now that lets you into the secret of life. In a few weeks we will become responsible for a little person. To mould them and to teach them and to give them the confidence to set forth into this mad world.
But the thing I’m learning now is that this small child has so much to teach me. He or she will make me a Father and that’s the greatest gift I will ever receive.
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