I was lucky to have a close friend, Sarah, who was also pregnant at the same time as me. Sarah was the type of friend who delved deep into research, which meant I could avoid overthinking essential decisions related to becoming a new mom. While I kicked back and watched reruns of my favorite shows, Sarah took the lead on the crucial details.
Which obstetrician should I choose? Sarah meticulously combed through online reviews and examined the NICU units associated with various doctors before selecting her own. I simply asked her for the contact information and booked my appointment for the same week.
What stroller should I consider? Sarah went to a new parents’ expo, where she tested out the latest models. She compared online reviews with safety standards and even stopped parents in the street to ask about their strollers. I just copied her choice onto my registry.
Which diapers were the most absorbent? Sarah signed up for diaper discount deals and compared disposable versus cloth options on reputable websites. For all I know, she might’ve even done her own testing.
When it came time to find a birthing class, I once again leaned on Sarah’s recommendations. However, I overlooked the fact that this was one area where our perspectives diverged. Sarah was keen on natural childbirth and even explored options like hypnobirthing, while I was still hoping to find a way to avoid being present during the actual birth.
The birthing class ran for six weeks, meeting once a week and led by a doula. This should have raised a red flag for me. I prefer straightforward information without the fluff. The class included discussions of historical artwork depicting childbirth, which seemed utterly pointless. Nobody in the throes of a contraction is likely to say, “This reminds me of that ancient depiction of a woman in labor; how beautiful!”
Please don’t misunderstand; I have great respect for doulas. They possess valuable knowledge and skills in pain relief, including breathing techniques and laboring positions. However, I didn’t have the budget for one, and the thought of having someone else in the room discussing physiotherapy balls while I was in labor made me uncomfortable. If you’re not medically necessary or my partner, you don’t belong in that space with me.
During the first class, we were asked to remove our shoes and sit on cushions scattered throughout the room. Couples appeared excited, eager to learn about the momentous occasion ahead. As we went around introducing ourselves and sharing our due dates along with our biggest fears, I noticed a recurring theme. Most women expressed anxiety about needing medication during labor. When it was my turn, given my struggles with conception, my biggest fear was that something could happen to my baby. My answer, “that my baby might die,” didn’t exactly win me any popularity points.
Soon after, we were split into groups by gender. My husband, Tom, looked panicked at the separation and whispered, “If they make us do trust falls, I’m out of here.”
In the gendered groups, we shared our baby’s gender (if known), our delivery plans, and what we envisioned for the labor process. The women in my group had detailed plans written out, from hospital bags to playlists, for their ideal births. When I stated my only plan was to “get the baby out,” my straightforwardness was not well-received.
The others may not have been impressed, but my doctor appreciated my honesty. When I shared my lack of a complex birth plan, she thanked me. “This indicates you understand the unpredictability of labor and are open to what I believe is best.” I wished she had been there; I felt like the “downer” in the group.
After reuniting with our partners, the instructor dramatically illustrated what labor looks like. She breathed in a specific way and got on all fours, writhing in what could only be described as a bizarre performance. The awkward silence in the room felt palpable; we were unsure whether to laugh or applaud.
Then came the extensive lecture on what to do with a placenta. You can take it home, dry it, or even make art from it! The idea of incorporating the placenta into recipes was particularly intriguing. I imagined Thanksgiving dinner with my mother-in-law asking, “What’s in that stuffing?” Now that would be a way to avoid hosting every year.
We then watched a video featuring three women giving birth, each accompanied by calm, soothing music. Each woman appeared blissful, a stark contrast to my own expectations. I turned to Tom and joked, “Maybe we don’t need a doula; we might just need a flutist.” He laughed, but our comments were met with disapproving stares.
In the second class, I hoped we would discuss the labor process and contractions, but instead, we continued with more on the joys of the placenta. People talked about placenta jewelry and even a teddy bear made from it. By the time we got to the Lotus Birth Placenta Bag, I was losing my patience. I thought, “None of this is going to help me when I’m in labor!” My husband and I wondered why we weren’t captivated by discussions about birthing statues and placenta lasagna.
The weekend before the third class, I experienced severe vertigo and ended up in the hospital. While on bed rest, I missed out on learning about labor-induction techniques like nipple stimulation, spicy foods, and sex. Lying there, pregnant and dizzy, none of those seemed appealing.
When the fourth class rolled around and I was feeling better, Tom and I debated going. Eventually, one of us said, “Do we really want to go?” The other replied, “Not really. I’d prefer pizza and TV.” And just like that, we decided to skip the rest of the classes without any regrets.
Later, I discovered a concise, hour-long DVD that covered all the essentials. Watching it in the comfort of our home was a game changer. I was annoyed that I hadn’t opted for that from the beginning. The twenty dollars spent proved more valuable than the five hundred I forked over for the class.
Ironically, I never went into labor. I was diagnosed with cholestasis, leading to a scheduled C-section at 37 weeks. My son spent a week in the NICU, but today he is a healthy, happy six-year-old.
The takeaway? Everyone has their own opinions on childbirth—what’s best, what’s not, and what feels right. Ultimately, you must do what works for you. Sarah went on to have a beautiful baby boy and, despite using medication, she had a labor experience she truly valued. However, I won’t be eating at her house anytime soon.
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Summary
This article recounts my humorous yet eye-opening experience as a birthing class dropout. Relying on a friend for research, I discovered the class focused more on unnecessary details than practical labor advice, leading to our decision to opt out. Ultimately, I learned the importance of finding what truly works for individual needs in childbirth.