Hear me meow

Ten minutes into the day-long intensive childbirth class we took yesterday, the instructor put this photo up on the screen. "What does this photo say to you?" she asked.

Silence, slightly bewildered looks.

"Come on, what does it say to you? Nothing?"

A few people offered half-hearted replies. (Well-trained dogs? A stupid cat?)

No, no, no. This picture was supposed to make us think of a strong, confident woman. And inspire us as we thought about birth, and our ability to get through it successfully.

Five minutes later, we were sitting on birthing balls getting our backs rubbed by our husbands, having been given absolutely no context on the process or progression of labor, physiological, emotional, or otherwise. That came about an hour later, after we covered what to pack for the hospital, were asked "What does a hospital johnny mean to you?" and two men were goaded into putting on empathy bellies and asked to bend over to tie their shoes for our amusement.

For my money -- $150 to be exact, most of which will fortunately be reimbursed by our health insurance -- a childbirth class is pretty important. They shouldn't let people with the competence of your average high school substitute teacher run them. No matter how long they've been an obstetric nurse, or how grandmotherly and warm they are, or how amusing their Boston accent may be.

I wouldn't say the day was a total loss; the tour of the maternity ward was good, and I liked getting my back rubbed by A. It's also been a long time since I had the fun of trying to suppress hysterical laughter, as I did as a result of the German shepherd / cat / I am woman moment. In fact, I'm considering printing out the picture and bringing it with me to have at the hospital while I labor. Laughter has got to be good for getting through contractions.