This is part 2 of an ongoing series on fatherhood, and my journey towards becoming a dad. To read part 1, click here: Part 1
Two weeks ago my wife and I started taking prenatal classes put on by Douglas College's North Surrey Continuing Education Program. The classes have been super informative, and while we've only done two classes so far, I feel like I've learned a lot of stuff I never knew, and a whole lot of stuff I never knew I didn't want to know.
For instance, did you know that it's a scientific fact that all 3D ultrasound images are actually of Cave Trolls, and not babies?
It's also proving to be a seemingly unlimited source of unintentional hilarity. Seriously, some weird and funny shit goes down at these things. For instance, this week we were learning about what to do when labour starts, and the instructor - and we'll talk more about her in a minute - separated us into two groups, of moms and dads. We had to make a list of all the things we thought we'd need to bring to the hospital with us. The list the women came up with comprehensive, and spanned the whole range of household and personal items. They knew what they were talking about, and had clearly thought of this stuff already. The list us menfolk concocted was, well, let's just call it rather brief and only slightly embarassing. Our initial list, and the one we were all content to go forward with before we were scolded by the instructor, consisted of three items:
- Woman
- Baby (I pointed out that the two were technically one "thing" until much later, but was shot down)
- Ipod
After our scolding, we acquiesced, and expanded our list to include a carseat, clothes, blankets for ourselves to sleep on, and some snacks. Oh and granny panties. Apparently those are important for some reason that I won't go into here.
Our instructor is a very nice lady, in that late-forties-early-fifties age range that's hard to distinguish between, and starting to go through menopause, so she's always really hot, and leaves the front door propped open with a trash can to crash and bang in the wind. She's also British, and uses weird British slang. She's also prone to getting super distracted and going off on tangents about her kids. It's been quite the experience watching this woman imitate what labour is like, and the sounds she makes are nothing short of haunting:
This is, of course, just a crude approximation. The real thing sounds much more like a goat than this.
Supposedly once this class is finished, there's going to be a reunion class about a month or so after all the babies have been born. I'm already afraid of being around my own child, largely due to the projectile vomiting I've heard so much about, and so the thought of being in a room containing 8 other tiny vomit factories fills me with a sense of almost palpable dread. I guess I'm just not a baby person.
Crystal and I have discussed this before, and we've both concluded that we're not really baby people. You know the type. The people who see a baby and let out an unconscious gasp of excitement and perhaps a little squeal of joy, perhaps followed by cooing noises about tiny feet. Those are baby people. Me, not so much. What's the age when they stop defecating in their drawers all the time? I'm excited for that. I guess I just really want a tiny person I can have weird surreal conversations with.
All that being said, I find myself growing less frightened of infants by the day. Perhaps it has something to do with just how damn adorable my new niece is, but they're starting to seem less scary all the time.