Classes

Yesterday I attended the doll-feeding class, fully equipped with a borrowed baby doll of extreme ugliness. It was mainly about positioning, and a demonstration from a nice girl with a two-day old baby who made it all look extremely comfortable and pleasant. The atmosphere was very encouraging; the hospital has a breastfeeding clinic every weekday morning, to assist with problems and support you when the nasty community midwives tell you to supplement with formula.

Disappointingly, though, there were only five of us in the class. Considering our antenatal classes have at least 20 couples in attendance, and there are fewer breastfeeding classes, I would have expected a better turn-out. We know why, though. All five of us have already experienced a significant lack of support from the people around us, warning us how hard it is, how idealistic we are, how disappointed we will be. Why not just inveest in some nice easy formula? (How is formula, with all the measuring and sterilising and faffing, easier than applying baby to breast for food that is free and perfectly tailored to one individual baby?).

Once again, all we hear about is about fitting the baby into our lives, and not the other way round. I continue to struggle with the idea that I’m going through all of this uncomfortable pregnancy stuff, and the experience of childbirth, just to put the baby away in a drawer so that it doesn’t disturb me too much. I have every intention of letting my life revolve around the baby, absolutely completely for six months, and then as far as is possible within the demands of earning some money to keep him in handknitted cashmere. I believe that this can be done, and I will not be distracted by naysayers, however closely they are related to me.

The two stupidest bits of advice of last week (you can decide which one takes the biggest biscuit): 1. Don’t sit so close to the desk, you will squash the baby! (Belly was not actually touching desk). 2. Make sure you get out by yourselves as soon as possible! (It’s as if the baby has been non-consensually inflicted upon us as a couple. And that’s not how it is).

I know I go on about this a lot, but I’m practicing for when I actually have to stand up for myself about something baby-related. Sooner or later there will be actual rather than theoretical conflict with the rod-for-your-own-back school.

Anyway, this morning we had an NHS parentcraft class, all about pain relief. The very good community midwife filled us with seditious thoughts about aromatherapy and homebirths, and we now plan to check out a nearby birth centre which we had previously dismissed because of the way it was[n't] sold to us by our own midwife (BUT if it goes wrong, you’ll be transferred to Slough). If we use the birth centre there is a much higher chance of getting to use a pool, and a much lower chance of interventions such as forceps or a caesarian. The problem is that you are expected to make these choices at about 8 weeks, when you are totally ignorant about the entire thing; and not until 30 weeks+ do they start giving you the sort of information you need in order to make a sensible decision. Presumably so they don’t waste too many resources on the 15% of pregnancies that end in miscarriage, but really, the number of couples today who suddenly looked as though they might change their minds about their hospital booking suggests that we’re going to be a small administrative nightmare for the midwives who tried not to give us a choice in the first place. As for homebirth, my midwife didn’t even suggest it.