I feel a bit queasy. It was out for office Christmas drinks last night. This morning I am sat in a hospital. No drunken high jinx resulting in surgery…a long planned parenthood class. Yes, it was well-planned, by everybody but me. Textbook agreeing to something and thinking it will be OK and that I will not drink too much.
And as difficult as parts of the morning are, the only things I have learned today are about looking after a baby – not not drinking the night before something you shouldn’t be hungover for. So I am simultaneously displaying my ability to learn on a literal level and not learn on some generic level simultaneously. I suppose one out of two preferable to none. PMA eh?
No-one really talks to me about being an expectant person outside of the group scenarios when the course leaders were the ones doing the talking. I don’t help matters in the short lunch break by watching United on my phone. Which also doesn’t help me feel any better. There isn’t much chatter. Maybe it’s because of the amount of times the word vaginal had been used this morning. Often followed by the word tear. It wasn’t that often – maybe only once. But that’s a big phrase for the women in the room. The men too.
One of the two midwives seems a bit off in the clouds at times. They are both great. And she is great. She tells us at the beginning that she has been a midwife forever and should have retired but has delayed it for a year. And she is like 98% reassuring. But you’re kind of looking for 100%.
There is one bit that is particularly poignant. It is in the afternoon and we’ve moved on from the birth bit into the coping with the first few days. And she kinds of talks about lots of things and stops for a bit and then says something about how hard it was, even for her with a decade of midwifery when she had her first child. And she’s just said it would be hard. But she looks into space and says “…..really….really hard.”
Shit. I already thought it was going to be regular really hard. But really, really hard?