Babyville Page 0,89
to lean over so he can whisper in my ear. “Didn't she ask this last week?” I nod and shrug. I do seem to remember that she talked about first-stage labor last week, but who knows, maybe we'll find out something fantastically interesting this week that she withheld before.
“Deep breathing?” From one of the other mums-to-be.
“Yes, that's a good idea!” Trish nods enthusiastically.
“Go for a walk?”
“Another good idea!”
“A hot drink?”
“Ooh yes! Definitely a hot drink! Good one!” Trish smiles encouragingly.
“Watch television?”
“Yes. We might well watch television.”
“Read a book?”
“Absolutely! Good idea!”
“Um, excuse me?” I lean forward and Trish looks to me for my suggestion of the day, but I'm rather confused. “Are you asking what might we do during first-stage labor to alleviate the pain or distract ourselves, or are you just asking what might we do?”
“Just what might we do,” she says happily, at which point Mark snorts, indicating an impending fit of giggles, and I sit back in amazement. It's like asking what might we do on a Sunday morning. Quite frankly the list could go on forever. As this one does. In fact, it manages to take up the rest of the class.
The antenatal class is not quite what I expected. Not that I had huge expectations, but I certainly thought I'd learn what my choices were, be able to make decisions based on those choices, know what to expect. Thus far I've learned nothing I hadn't already picked up from books. Oh, and I've learned that, should I decide to have an epidural, or—God forbid—a cesarean, I am a very bad person indeed and will be sent straight to hell.
“There have been cases,” Trish said last week, in an ominous, hushed voice, “of the epidural going”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“wrong.” A sharp intake of breath from the other couples, as Trish looked at each of us in turn, making sure she had our full attention for the horror story she was doubtless about to impart. “I know of a woman who had an epidural, and it”—pause for dramatic effect—“went up.”
“What do you mean?” someone said.
“I mean that she had no feeling from the waist up, but felt everything from the waist down.”
Everybody gasped in horror, except for me. I rolled my eyes at Mark, and wondered whether I could seriously endure another few weeks of pretending I too was going for a natural birth with only humming and breathing to take away the pain, with possibly a tiny touch of gas and air if it got really bad.
Little do they know I've been considering an elective cesarean. Little are they ever going to know if I want to get out of here alive.
My main reason for coming was to meet other couples who were living locally and also having children at the same time. Although I was being very snobby. I tried desperately to get into the Hampstead class because I was a bit worried about the classes in Dartmouth Park, but the National Childbirth Trust wasn't having any of it.
“I know the computer says it's Gospel Oak,” I said on the phone, in my most imperious voice (which, incidentally, makes the Queen sound like an extra in EastEnders), “but actually we live just off Hampstead High Street.” It was worth a shot, but meanwhile I'm sitting in the living room of a large house in Dartmouth Park. And the people are fine. The other couples seem very sweet. But not my cup of tea. Not that it matters, as I'll be going straight back to work as soon as baby is born.
My idea of hell? Sitting around a table in a local coffee shop with four other women, all of us whipping our boobs out to soothe our screaming infants, sharing our birth stories and talking babies, because really we've got nothing else in common, but the loneliness is such that this is better than nothing.
I don't think so.
On the other hand I know how important it is to get to know other local mothers to find out about what's going on. I have no clue where baby groups are, or nurseries, or childminders. I need to build up a support network in the area, and that's why I'm here.
“Only another three weeks until the course is over,” I whisper to Mark, who finds the antenatal class as patronizing and ridiculous as I do. “Be nice.”
“I'm trying,” he whispers back, but when we've all put our shoes back on and said good-bye (every week we