Although the entry title may suggest ANOTHER hemorrhoid story, it actually doesn't! This past Tuesday we took our first baby class. Lisa was looking around for a place that would give some basic instructions on breast feeding. She found this birthing center just a few miles away that was giving a six week instructional course on raising your baby. But instead of signing up for all six sessions, we were able to sign up for only the booby milking lecture.
As we pulled up to the birthing center, the first sign that made me think the night might be curious was the name: Natural Birth & Women's Center. There's nothing wrong about natural birth and certainly nothing wrong about a women's center. After all a woman's center is where the baby comes out of. But we are having a planned c-section so any talk of natural birth would be rather useless to us.
We pulled up 5 minutes before 7:30p and people were still waiting for the doors to open. Staying in the shelter of our car, we were able to observe the different types of people who were taking the class. Most of them seemed like twenty or thirty-something couples with earthy looking women and their distracted husbands in tow. We also saw a mother who obviously was very proud of her appearance: she wore a tiny shirt that exposed her entire belly button pierced tummy with an extremely tanned complexion which would match extremely well with my v-neck tan (Yes...I still have that awkward tan from the Giants game. Shuddup.). And lastly we saw a woman possibly five months pregnant jogging across the street with a water bottle to the center. Then we saw her pass our car, pass the center, and pass our sight line. So we stood corrected: we saw a woman possibly fifteen pounds overweight jogging across the street with a milkshake to the pie shop.
About 7:45p the doors opened and we entered a world that looked eerily similar to this:
All you'd have to do is replace the whores with pregnant women, and this would be the waiting area of the birth center. It had this Haunted Mansion chandelier in the middle of the room. The walls bled this awful red patterned wallpaper resembling aged strawberry fruit roll-ups. Underneath our feet was tattered red carpeting that would almost make you wish you were walking bare foot in an adult theater instead. And the creepiest part was this old display cabinet of kewpie dolls. I felt they were mocking my pain. "You think you have it tough? We've been stuck in here for fifty damn years..."
Let me just say right now that the people and the instructor who were there were very nice and friendly people. And all of their intentions were pure and true. It's just that I didn't want to be instructed in a whorehouse. With that let me continue...
The woman who was instructing this class looked exactly like my history teacher from high school, Ms. Wilcox, who in turn looked a little like Mona from Who's the Boss. This 50-something woman sharing her knowledge with us had long, coarse red hair that made her light complexion even whiter. As she entertained us with her charts and stories, she kept on playing with this poor kewpie doll that she used as a stunt baby. She would pretend this doll came out of her vagina and had a grand fascination with her breasts. I'm sure this kewpie doll was caught trying to bust out of the cabinet and has now been punished to a lifetime of suckling and groping.
She spoke of what a healthy baby should look like. She spoke of what an unhealthy baby might look like. She spoke of the evils of immunizations. And she spoke of how she keeps her diaphragm in her night stand. Quite an invigorating night, but we were still waiting for the breast feeding portion.
8pm turned into 8:30pm into 9:00pm into 9:30pm into 10:00pm into I AM NOW IN SATAN'S BORDELLO!!!! I kept on looking at my watch wondering when the hell she was going to talk about lactation or formula. At least say the word 'nipple' so I can rationalize paying for this class. Then came the magic words...
"I guess we should talk a little about breast feeding..."
YES FINALLY!!!
"...but I totally lost track of time so we'll pick up on that at our next session."
MOTHERF(*&ER!!!
After eighty dollars and one hundred eighty minutes, I wasn't even able to get my jollies off of hearing the word "booby". Everyone began to say their good nights. Lisa and I politely smiled to the instructor and told her how informative it was as I begrudgingly wrote a check.
Driving away, I asked Lisa what she thought of the class. She said between her teeth, "All I could think is I wanted her to stop talking so I could go home because my butt hurts so much."
Well said Lisa. It was a pain in the ass.
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