The Director - Renee Rose Page 0,42

who wants to control every aspect of my pregnancy and birth.

Wonder what they’d say if I led with that?

But no. Trust-building, I remind myself. Surrender.

“Hi, I’m Melissa,” a very young woman with long dark hair and olive skin says. “We, uh, got pregnant on our honeymoon. It was sort of unexpected, but we’re happy.”

“I’m John,” her husband says.

“I’m Larry, this is my wife Jane. This will be our third home birth with Svetlana, so we don’t really need the class, but it’s an excuse to get away from the other two kids and have a date night together,” a bearded man says. His wife laughs and snuggles against his side. “Plus, we love the videos,” Jane says.

“Oh yes, the birth videos,” the woman with the baby says. “I’ve seen them twenty times, and I still cry every time.”

Everyone smiles.

“I’m Carrie. I don’t have a birth partner,” a hippie-looking blonde says. “But I’m planning on hypnobirthing. I’ve been listening to my audios.”

Hypnobirthing. Ravil mentioned something about that to my parents. At the time, I was fairly certain it was yet another crazy thing he was throwing at me to keep me off balance. Now, it sounds more like a real thing. I make a mental note to research it.

“That’s all right. I will be your birth partner,” Svetlana says. “Or Genevieve.” She indicates the mom, who is now nursing her chubby baby in the corner. “My assistant.” Genevieve lifts her hand and waves. “I’m Genevieve. This is Sammy.” As if the baby knows he’s being talked about, he pops off her breast, leaving it exposed to the room, turns around and gives us all a dazzling smile. Milk drips from his reddened lips.

My own nipples tighten at the sight, as if my body is willing to nurse him, too, if something happens to his mother.

Everyone laughs, waves, makes baby-faces and coos over the adorable Sammy, Ravil included. It’s sweet. I relax a little.

These aren’t my people—they all seem like the crunchy, granola type, which makes sense, if Svetlana is their midwife and/or birth coach. But we’re all here for the same reason. The same result.

To have our own fat, happy, adorable baby at the end of it.

“Hi, I’m Lucy,” I say, kicking myself for sounding every inch the stiff, frigid lawyer.

“I’m Ravil,” he cuts in, like he realizes I don’t know what else to say.

Svetlana fires up her computer and goes through a Powerpoint on proper diet during pregnancy. It’s basically the same checksheet she left with me on Tuesday.

Then she starts talking about birthing techniques and baby positioning. How important it is to have the baby head down, face down for the birth and what we can do toward the end of our pregnancies to ensure that happens, like crawling on our hands and knees, or doing handstands in a swimming pool.

Part of me wants to roll my eyes and blow this all off as a bunch of hippie nonsense, but the other part of me can believe there might be some old wisdom here, passed down through the ages through women like Svetlana, before the time when doctors took over births and giving birth in hospitals became the normal thing.

That doesn’t mean I want to forego the hospital birth. Lord knows, I want the epidural and the oxygen and everything else that might be necessary to keep me and my baby safe. Especially considering my age.

Svetlana puts on a video of a home birth. I’m a little shocked at first to see a pregnant woman fully naked on her hands and knees on a bed.

Moaning.

She circles her hips and sways from knee to knee as her birth partner strokes her back.

“He is using very light touch, making figure-eights on her back,” Svetlana says in her Russian accent. “This helps her relax.” The woman’s moans get louder.

“She’s having a contraction. See how she doesn’t stop breathing? Instead she lets out a low sound. This low sound helps relax the pelvic floor. What the mouth does, the pelvic floor does. Relax your mouth, relax the pelvis. Baby comes out.”

I’m embarrassed watching it. It seems like such a private moment, and yet here we all are, intruding on it, watching the poor woman struggle through the most intimate of acts. “I can’t believe she let someone videotape this,” I mutter.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Jane pipes up. “You think you’re going to care who sees you give birth or sees you naked, but when the moment comes, none of that really matters. You’re