Antenatal Anal Attendence

18th November | 2005

....................... Antenatal Anal Attendence

Wood pidgeons swoop and land on mighty kauri, fishettes leap from the placid waters of the mangrove kingdom and a pregnant wife goes round in circles in search of a misplaced piece of favoured clothing. Which, when she finds it, won't fit her anyway.
These scenes and more are played out in the quiet valley at our new house.

Mostly we cant find anything. We thought we had done well early on in the pack down, labeling our packed boxes prodigiously but in the end that all went out the window and stuff was just chucked into whatever vessel was nearby. The end result is a sense of limbo and frustration. One day we’ll be sorted we say to ourselves, one day. . .
In the meantime, whenever we look outside, our view remains magnificent and all is well.

In the midst, of all our moving and shaking, we have had our antenatal classes. I must admit to a sense of trepidation as they came along.
“Do we really need to go?”
I would say hopefully.
“Weve read. God knows weve read. What can they teach us?”
If I was expecting a reprieve or a late pardon, I was to be disappointed.
Mrs K was having no part of my attempts to ‘opt out’ and in the end the classes were helpful and I can report that I even enjoyed them.

The choice was between six two hour classes or two six hour ones. I could already tell that if we choose the six class option my old latent ability to ‘wag’ classes would emerge. We would go to the first one diligently, that much was certain. We are of course modern parents and as such are subject to the various social pressures that force you to succeed in the production of superb children. We therefore HAVE to go to the antenatal class otherwise we will be remiss in the perfect upbringing of our child.
If we dont go, in twenty years time there will be a knock at our door. It will be the cops.
“Is your son Horatio Kumara?”
“I hope not. I would have thought we would have had a better name than that.”
“Is this your son?”
Shows me a picture of a rather striking, handsome individual in a commando outfit holding a gun.
“yes. That’s him. Bless em’’
“He’s gone on a murderous rampage.”
“Not again!”
“Did you go to antenatal classes when he was in the womb?”
“Well. . . I was busy. . and. . .”
“My god. You people disgust me. Tell that story to the parents of the poor victims of ya sons bloodfest”
The copper slams our door. On the way out he mutters to his mate.
“it’s always the same. A cycle of decline starting just because they didn’t have time. . .only 12 hours. 12 HOURS!”

There is therefore some pressure to do the right thing. But I can imagine faced with six classes from 7 to 9.30 on a weeknight, that after one or two classes the excuses will begin to take effect;
“Coro’s on. Karens leaving..!”
OR
“Theres a documentary about a baby with two heads who wants to be a film star it's called "Mutant Make Over". . .

Eventually, any excuse will work . . .
“the news is on…”
OR
“TV3’s second weather girl is going to singing “Born to be Wild” on Mystery Celebrity Sing a long . .”

So we sign up for two six hour sessions. Our group are nice, ordinary even. But, we are in Titirangi which has a bob each way demographically. There are professionals and TV types. It is not what I would call 'Deep West' like Henderson or Massey. Still, I thought the group would involve, at least some eccentrics, the occasional hippie or surely one archetypal ‘westie’ couple;
A girl in black velvet, smelling of petunia oil, sitting cross legged on the floor in a trance who, when she speaks, talks with a broad healthy kiwi drawl. She will say ‘Hi’ with a ‘w’ in it – ‘hwi’ and will have a fabulous ‘eh’ which she uses with great gusto.
Her boyfriend will arrive later in a Ute with thumping bass. He will have on, tight jeans and his hair cut will be the style favoured by lesbians everywhere – the mullet.
It is a style summarized by the phrase “Business in the front, party at the back”. Which accurately describes our archetype. His mates will tell you he is ‘hard case’, but he will not be afraid of hard work and will be known to enjoy himself with a case of his favourite tipple, pre-mix bourbon and coke.

Anyway, back from my cliché’ and at the real antenatal class I sit in a circle with our group, my chest resplendent with a set of false breasts.
We wear the breasts to demonstrate what it is like to be a mother with a suckling child. I have friends, especially male ones, who have snickered when I tell them that’s what I have been up to, but damn them, this is for junior and I don’t mind. Personally I think I successfully tread the fine line between anal blokey reticence and the sort of complete hippie indulgence you could expect from some individuals. Here I am imagining a flowery german person who hitchhikes everywhere, wearing multi-coloured wollen tights whose only worldy possession will be his favourite hackysack. He will give himself over to the whole experience without restraint; squeezing the nipples and even bouncing the breasts about while rolling on the floor.
Eventually he will demonstrate his absence of inhibition by stripping off entirely. To our (anal) protests he will say (in a voice like Arnie);
“Vat are you worried about. It ees only a body. Dees are jus breasts.”

The men in our group, it has to said, are remarkably open and unconcerned by the ‘group activities’. The one chap who did seem uncomfortable with the new age claptrap didn’t come the second week and I certainly couldn’t blame him.
At the end of our first weeks session, after 5 hours of intense birthing action a dutch woman arrived who looked like an Indian. In retrospect I see that I should have taken this as my cue to leave.
She was to teach us about baby massage. Which is fine. However first she insisted on talking about ‘rebirth’ and taking us inside the womb to see what the baby experienced. To ‘relax’ us, she put on a tape of the baby heartbeat.
Boom boom -
boom boom –
boom boom –
boom boom -
I had to laugh. . .because it was like a horror movie soundtrack and among the least relaxing sounds I have ever heard.
“Close your eyes and let us go on a journey. . .”
After some rebirthing trauma removal, we arrived at our destination.
‘da voom is nice, warm, safe, dark and quiet.. .”
I was doubtful about the quiet bit, I have listened to Mrs K’s tummy and it sounds like a Russian water treatment plant. After a good curry, well .. . its best described as an explosive, wheezing, turbulent place. Not the bastion of peace, Pocohantas is describing.

She went on to explain how after the womb, all is ghastly for the baby.
“It is born terrified”
She said, wide eyed giving her best imitation of a burial ghoul.
“The light, the sound, the harsh air.. absolutely frightened”
I felt like asking if it would help if we smacked it’s arse. Just as a distraction or as a blast from the past.
(It’s probably scared of the future prospect of a fear mongering antenatal class -ed)
Largely though ,the Dutch Indian ladies time was brief, and an amusing (at least for me) distraction from our serious work with positions, breathing, intervention and parenthood.

The final class ended with the swapping of phone numbers and an assurance that we would get in touch after our births. Like school reunions I suspect that maybe we will seek that contact only if the births go well. For instance, after crapping on about our desire for a natural birth, if on the big day we have one contraction then demand a caesarian I cant imagine seeking out this lot to talk about the experience. Of course by that time we will presumably have a baby. A Baby! So we wont care how it came out.
“We were crap but look at this!”
HAH!