31st October 2005
Hi all,
This week's thought has been especially inspired by last night's manic search for my car's M.O.T. certificate. Typically I could find last year's certificate, and even the one from three years ago. This year's certificate? No chance. And all this for the opportunity to pay my road tax. What a wonderful task, a really nice way to end my weekend.
Needless to say after that experience (and the resulting tiredness that has followed it today) being professional (don't laugh) might be harder than other weeks, but I'll do my best to tell those of you who aren't parents just what parenting classes are like.
Being entirely honest I was dreading the classes, but three-fifths of the way through they're not proving to be all that bad. In fact I'm almost looking forward to them each week, as I'm finding them to be very informative while Lorraine is finding the practical exercises to be extremely useful.
If our parenting classes were a film there would be three main characters. These are:
1) The Physio.
An extremely helpful lady called Audrey. She's got lots of useful tips regarding light exercises, stretches and breathing which Lorraine has found to be very helpful (one relaxation exercise almost sent Lorraine into a deep sleep). She also has a plethora of diagrams and models at her disposal, including a replica pelvis which almost made me pass out twenty minutes into our first class (remember how squeamish I am).
She's also had three children herself, so she's "been there, done that, bought the t-shirt", and she's got a habit for going off on bonkers tangents. Examples follow:
Week 1 - Escaped her house while plumbers fitted a new boiler.
Week 2 - Left her husband and eldest son to fend for themselves as she had to take the class.
Week 3 - Came in on her week off because she enjoys taking the class that much (a bit above and beyond the call of duty I'd say, but it is nice to see someone who enjoys their job).
2) The Midwife.
We had the same physio for the first two weeks, and then last week a different midwife came along and spoke to us (think of it like Madonna being replaced mid-way through "Desperately Seeking Susan").
Of the two hours that each class is meant to take we are supposed to have an hour with a physio and an hour with a midwife. The problem here is that the initial midwife we had likes the sound of her own voice a bit too much. To add insult to injury she speaks in very flowery language, making everything seem nice and tranquil (which I'm certain the birth of a child won't be).
Last weeks' visiting midwife was much better in my opinion. She made her points about the third stage of labour pretty well, didn't dance around the subject of a "resuscitatorr" (however uncomfortable it made everyone in the room) and as a bonus sounded uncannily like my mother-in-law. Naturally when she asked, "Does anyone want a wee biscuit?" Lorraine and I cracked up. Fran-tastic.
(By the way I'm thinking of transcribing word for word each occasion when my mother-in-law vents about a celebrity and making it a feature here. She's one of the nicest people you could ever wish to meet, which makes the rare outbursts hysterical when you hear them. Last week's indignant rant about Jonathan Ross almost made me cry with laughter, I wish I'd been videoing it.)
3) The Class Clown.
The first week of our classes was a bit subdued. I guess everyone was a bit nervous and unsure about what to expect.
Fortunately (from a comedy point of view) a prize idiot and his expectant wife started coming along from the second week onwards. He looks a bit like a guy I know at work, only chavved-up to the maximum degree. Furthermore he instantly got on Lorraine's nerves by being one of the significant number of smokers who stand outside the hospital entrance and make form a large cloud for non-smokers to walk through (some patients even add to this cloud while wearing dressing gowns, it is quite a sight to see).
He quickly made an impression on the rest of the group too, distracting the midwife enough that she went ten minutes over her allocated time (instead of the usual five) with distracting questions. However he really made an impression on the physio. Going through a practical exercise with his wife the physio made the mistake of referring to the unborn child as, "Your baby." Cue another interruption. "Her name's Sophie," came the unwanted reply, "If you had seen the pictures you'd know that!" Yikes. Being fair the physio handled it quite well, pointing out that "My daughter is three and she'll always be my baby." The trouble was she got another reminder that this wasn't just any baby, it was "Sophie". Obviously no-one in the room understood him the first time.
I think this experience must have been enough for him to be put off the physio permantly, as last week he arrived in good time for the first hour with the physio but didn't join the rest of the class. Instead he waited up the stairs and obviously prepared another list of stupid questions and new statements ("She wants a water birth," being the most pronounced). The best of his questions follow:
Q - "Why can't I take pictures during the birth?"
My answer, whispered to Lorraine - "Because your wife will take the camera and smash it over your head." Really, who wants to take pictures of their wife screaming, looking awful and undergoing immense pain, regardless of the hopeful result of the process? I still can't believe he asked about this.
The following question followed the part of the class where the midwife told us about how the babies are tagged for security purposes:
Q - "If I wanted to, could I take the baby for a walk around the hospital for half-an-hour?" Midwife's answer - "No, because that would be seen as a discharge."
Response - "But everything seems to be about it being 'Mummy's baby', not 'Daddy's baby'. I'm the Daddy, and staff will know I'm the Daddy!"
Yep, staff at the opposite end of the hospital who have never seen you before in their life are going to know exactly who you are. I don't think so. Far more likely is someone thinking you have a mental problem and are abducting the baby. Maybe Strathclyde Police will know you're the Daddy? (Little tip here - don't count on it.)
With that in mind I'm off to find the phone number for Social Services...
Have a good week!
Tony
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