talking about ladies' private parts
We went to an antenatal class last night. I was most reluctant, recalling 1970s sitcoms where they all, fathers included, had to lie on mats and do breathing exercises.
It wasn’t like that, though: more like an EFL classroom, sitting in a shallow horseshoe, and occasionally being put into small groups, for which I had all the enthusiasm scientists would feel if obliged to swap places with their laboratory rats.
But it got better. We learned all the about the stages of labour, and the bit before it which is called effacement. And then we went to see the birthing pool, and one of the ordinary delivery suites. You can listen to CDs.
We had to wait half an hour for the bus home, and got drownded in the rain, which led to a questioning of our counter-culture public transport = good, cars = bad philosophy.
It wasn’t like that, though: more like an EFL classroom, sitting in a shallow horseshoe, and occasionally being put into small groups, for which I had all the enthusiasm scientists would feel if obliged to swap places with their laboratory rats.
But it got better. We learned all the about the stages of labour, and the bit before it which is called effacement. And then we went to see the birthing pool, and one of the ordinary delivery suites. You can listen to CDs.
We had to wait half an hour for the bus home, and got drownded in the rain, which led to a questioning of our counter-culture public transport = good, cars = bad philosophy.
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