Chapter 27
Jack
Twenty Eight Weeks
“Remind me what this is again?” I ask nervously as we pull into the parking lot of the community center.
“A lamaze class,” Abby says patiently. “Apparently it helps you prepare for birth and gives you some tips.”
“Lamaze is a weird word,” I mumble. “And why am I here?”
“Because you’ve come to everything else,” she says. “And Ellie is out of town, and someone besides me needs to know this information. So take notes.”
We walk into the building and I’m immediately reminded of a school gymnasium. Except instead of flying dodgeballs, there are about a dozen women seated with their husbands on folding chairs evenly spaced out, yoga mats on the floor next to each pair of chairs.
“Now that our final couple is here,” the instructor says coolly, “We can begin.”
Did we just get called out?
I give Abby a sideways glance as we take our seats and see her lips pressed tightly together, holding in a laugh.
“Don’t laugh,” I mutter, low enough that only she can hear it. “If you laugh, I’ll laugh, and we’ll get in trouble.”
She clears her throat, sitting up straight and looking very serious. That sight alone nearly makes me laugh out loud. But I turn my attention to the instructor, determined to retain as much information as I can.
The class is actually really helpful. Everything I’ve learned about childbirth has been from an EMT standpoint–I never really thought about how much labor and delivery takes a mental toll on top of the physical. Abby listens diligently, laser focused on the quirky instructor.
Some of it is a little woo-woo for my tastes, but if it helps Abby, I’ll be glad for it. I don’t really understand the difference between “bodyfeeling” and regular feeling, but all the women in the room nod in unison–they clearly understand something I don’t.
Sometimes the men closest to me will make eye contact, giving me the grimace-smile we men do and rolling their eyes. I feel distinctly out of place, like any moment someone is going to call me out for being a phony.
What am I really doing here? This isn’t my child. I won’t be in the room when she gives birth.
And why does that make me kind of sad?
“Now, I’d like to demonstrate some of the best positions for labor and birth,” she instructor says, clapping her hands together. “Mommies and partners, please move to the mat, thank you.”
Looking a little bewildered, Abby shrugs and sits criss-cross on the mat, motioning for me to join her. I awkwardly kneel beside her, unsure of exactly what’s about to be expected of me.
“Am I crazy, or is this kind of wackadoodle?” she whispers.
“I think that’s a great word for it,” I whisper back. “She’s a little…”
“Eccentric?”
“I was going to say batshit crazy.”
She snorts loudly, then clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes widening in embarrassment. The outburst earns us another stern look, and all of my mental effort is going to stopping the laughter trying to burst out.
“For this first one, I want you to get on your hands and knees, and slowly rock back and forth. Really focus on how the movement takes pressure off of your pelvis–the movement will also help to divert your focus away from the pain.”
“Doubt it,” Abby mumbles, but she diligently follows instructions.
And I diligently try not to stare at her ass in those yoga pants.
“There will be a lot of ways to achieve this forward-leaning position–medicine balls, chairs, the hospital bed if you choose an in-hospital birth.”
“God, a home birth sounds like my worst nightmare,” Abby muses. “Please give me as many drugs as possible.”
