M and I attended our "infant care class" Wednesday night. It was pretty much a bust. They spent the first thirty minutes (re)assuring us that our baby won't always be so funny lookin (body covered in cheese, giant balls--well, not Mr. B--, smashed head, yada yada yada) and then another forty five on hospital security. I know these are scary times, but c'mon--Baby LoJack? Oh, and then they talked for like another half-an-hour about snacks for Dad. Cause Dad might get queasy being that he is a "man" and all. There was a lot of "Dad" talk (by this I mean using the word Dad instead of other parent, coach, etc) which doesn't really offend me. I can't speak for the single moms, the one gay Dad and the requisite pregnant teen (who spent the entire time texting).
Finally at 9p (and with a half-an-hour-left) they got down to the important stuff--bath, swaddling and diaper change. I have a feeling I am going to need a sedative to give the first bath. Not too mention, that we couldn't see any of the demos and that "practice" time came at 9:30 when the class was supposed to be done. Needless to say, M and I didn't stay to practice. It was Wednesday night. We had to get home for Project Runway. They'll teach us how to change a diaper in the hospital or will call our friend Claire (which by the way, is now my answer for everything).
Speaking of Project Runway, I just read this on TMZ: http://www.tmz.com/category/lets-get-this-party-started/I I feel a bit of six degrees as my excellent friend Jamie (M says I can't put last names on the blog. Sorry Merlino) went to diving camp with Dale.
1 comment:
There's something intrinsically nightmarish about those prenatal care classes, and C-Spice, you've nailed it: it ain't just the horror of baby-theft (although tagging is a real problem at our hospital), or even the fear of a lathered-up nude baby squooching out of your hands and through the air like a wet bar of soap. That only happend to us once or twice.
The real nightmare is that you can tell right off how much these people have built a magical mystery world around "Daddy," the despotic golf buddy at the center of everyone's life. You wouldn't want "Daddy" to get upset or bored or confused or angry, now, would you, class? To hell with the contractions; better get some saltines and ginger ale for Daddy-- I think his mind's starting to wander back to the fun times at Hooter's he's missing!
Bomb and I spent pretty much our whole prenatal class thinking about how we might go down to our local YMCA and volunteer to hold gender classes (you know, for insurance purposes) and secretly instruct people about childbirth.
LOVE the blog, C-spice! Can't wait to meet Mr. Baby!
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