In Birth and In Banter

Love, Laughter, and Learning to Push as a Team

I wasn’t sure about childbirth classes. I generally like to be informed and prepared, but sometimes, for me, more knowledge just means more anxiety. My husband, on the other hand, thrives on preparation. He has a sharp memory and can apply what he’s learned in real time. In the end, we decided on in-person classes—$350 for eight three-hour sessions. In the past, we’ve taken dog training and CPR classes, and we’re the type to binge watch podcasts and documentaries over trashy dramas or superhero movies. This would be one last joint-learning experience before two became three.

It was August, and the days were long, hot, and heavy with that late-summer stillness. Our childbirth class started at 6:00 p.m., just as the sun was beginning to mellow, and during breaks, most of the couples wandered down the street for fro-yo, waddling and sweating in solidarity.

Our pretty instructor, Jen, had long red hair and a curvy yet toned figure. She wore yoga pants and hippie prints. Enthusiastic and charismatic, she made the three-hour sessions quite enjoyable. Her laptop was plastered with stickers, and I spied a rainbow flag, which clashed beautifully with the 1776 decal on mine. Despite our likely opposite stances on just about everything, I liked her instantly. Two freedom-loving weirdos from different tribes, meeting in the temple of perineal massage.

The first class, Exercise and Nutrition, was a breeze. I felt like the Hermione Granger of childbirth—hand up, answers ready, practically glowing, not from the pregnancy but with smug competence. Honestly, I could’ve taught the class myself and still had time to critique the PowerPoint. Maybe I’m more prepared than I thought.

That said, when the instructor brought up the Brewer diet and casually dropped a 2,600-calorie-per-day recommendation, I blinked. That’s not a meal plan; that’s a competitive eating event. Imagine the gas… I pictured myself waddling into labor like a human whoopee cushion.

Turns out, I wasn’t prepared at all. The second class, Stages of Labor, was mortifying. We watched some labor and birth videos, and they freaked me out. I expressed my fears to my husband during the break.

“What are you afraid of the most?” my husband asked.

“Looking stupid,” I admitted without missing a beat. Honestly, I thought the vocalizations these women were making, the rocking back and forth, sounded and looked incredibly stupid. The stretching of the vagina with the vernix-covered baby grossed me out too.

“Well, you’re going to look stupid, and so am I,” my husband declared. “I think everyone looks stupid, so it’s time you just make peace with it and accept it.”

Speaking of looking stupid, during this class, one of the attendees piped up: “When do we know when to take off our underwear?” The question hung in the air, awkward and sincere. She was skinny, with a basketball belly that looked almost comically grafted onto her delicate frame, mousey brown hair, and a chronically worried expression. While most of us showed up in leggings and oversized T-shirts, she came in pregnancy slacks and a blouse, like she'd just left a board meeting to attend the business of birth.

I stifled a snort. I actually had that same thought, but I’m not dumb enough to say it aloud! They say there are no stupid questions, only people stupid enough to ask them in public.

I whispered to my husband, “Didn’t anyone tell her that’s what crotchless panties are for?”

His eyes widened.

I pondered on this fear of looking stupid for some time. During one of the most intense, beautiful, and potentially dangerous experiences a woman can undergo, I was worried about how I looked.

That, and pooping during delivery.

During our third class, we learned about Childbirth Coaching. Our instructor was also a doula—and not shy about plugging the profession. She highly recommended hiring one, which made me side-eye my husband and whisper, “Excuse me, but isn’t this literally why you’re here?”

At one point he leaned over and whispered, “I think it would be fun to be a doula.”

I knew I married the right one. He’s smart, logical, and mechanical but still deeply in touch with his nurturing side. The kind of man who can fix a sink, remember the stages of labor, and rub your back without being asked. “Well, why don’t you become one?” I asked.

“I don’t think there’s a big demand for male doulas.”

“You’d be good at it.” I said sincerely.

He nodded solemnly. “Not the doula the city wants. The doula the city needs. Bat Doula.”

I grinned. “You’re a moron.”

Throughout this lesson, the instructor repeated (with professional phrasing) that a woman in labor might act like a real c-word to her partner. Each time she said it, my husband glanced at me with mock fear. He knows me too well.

When we covered the various stages of labor, my instructor posited a question to the class and looked at me first. “What do you do to relax?”

“Umm take a bath?”

“Water. Great! A lot of people find showering or bathing relaxing during early labor.”

She moved on.

“Liar. Why didn’t you tell her you watch InfoWars to unwind?” Daddy-to-Be whispered.

“Try me, and I’ll explain how you treated the air conditioner like it’s a high-stakes negotiation while your heavily pregnant wife is suffering in the summer heat.”

We whispered like this through every class. The instructor didn’t seem to mind—or maybe she’d just given up—but if we’d gone to school together, we definitely would’ve gotten detention.

About halfway through class, a woman was suddenly rushed into the birthing center right next door to where our class was being held. At first, we barely noticed—just a blur of medical staff and hurried footsteps. But then, about an hour later, the sounds started: low grunts and moans drifting through the walls, growing louder and more intense by the minute.

And then—out of nowhere—she let out a primal scream. A raw, guttural cry that echoed through the hallway and straight into the room where we sat, wide-eyed and frozen in fear, yet sticky with sweat from the lingering August heat. It was exactly like the dramatic scenes you see in movies, the ones that make you clutch the popcorn or look away.

OMG. WTF? This is real. This is happening right now.

I glanced at my husband, whose eyes were just as wide, and suddenly the gravity of it all hit me like a freight train.

I can’t do this. The thought slammed into my mind hard and fast. This is going to hurt so much. I don’t know if I’m ready.

But then, almost immediately, a new, fiercer thought pushed back. I have to do this. Because if she can scream like that and keep going, so can I. Because this is how life begins, messy and loud and terrifying—and somehow miraculous.

I swallowed hard and sat up a little straighter, bracing myself for everything to come. And boy, the next topic was a surprise.

Lightning crotch.

It sounds fake, but it’s very real. A sudden, sharp, electric jolt that shoots down your pelvis without warning—usually caused by the baby pressing on a nerve as they settle into position. Like a taser to the cooch.

“Lighting crotch?!” I turned to my husband. “That’s going to be my superhero name. Bat Doula and his trusty sidekick, Lightning Crotch.”

During the Lactation session, we were told that the hour after birth is the “golden hour”—a sacred time for snuggling, bonding, and breastfeeding. I rolled my eyes. Maybe I’ll feel warm and fuzzy after pushing out a baby, but let’s be honest... after my crotch gets torn to shreds, I’ll be using the golden hour to remind everyone what I’ve just gone through. But sure, lady, we’ll see.

When we covered Post-Birth Interventions, our instructor pulled out a binder of photos of male celebrities who weren’t circumcised. “A lot of people think that not circumcising your boy will make him less sexually appealing, but did you know that Elvis wasn’t circumcised?!” I laughed aloud. Most of the other couples seemed uncomfortable.

Especially when the front-desk assistant chimed in. “My husband is British, and ya know, a lot of them aren’t circumcised, and you can’t even tell when it’s erect.”

Oh brother.

During the break, I was the only person brave enough to flip through the binder.

“Oh! You’re looking at the intact celebrities!” the instructor exclaimed.

“Yeah, but I think it needs an update, Jen. I don’t think Bill Cosby being uncircumcised is a very good selling point.” I pointed to a youthful photo of America’s Pervert himself.

In our Postpartum class, we learned that some people choose to save their placenta. Yes—save it. As in, keep it on ice like it’s a family heirloom. The instructor explained all the options with the enthusiasm of someone listing wedding registry perks: encapsulation, planting it under a tree, turning it into “placenta art” (whatever that means—macramé, but haunted?).

Apparently, some folks store it in their freezer until they “decide what to do with it.” I looked at my husband, silently picturing us six months postpartum, opening the freezer for frozen berries and finding... an organ. Just chilling. Wrapped in parchment like it’s part of a charcuterie board from hell.

I could tell not a single person in that class was actually planning on saving their placenta. You could feel it. The collective silence, the carefully blank faces, the tiny scoffs of disbelief. We all just nodded politely while secretly praying no one asked us to go around and share our “placenta plans.”

But between you and me—I already had one. If I ended up being transferred to the hospital, I was absolutely keeping mine. Not because I wanted to bury it under a tree or blend it into a smoothie, but because there’s no way I’m letting some hospital sell it to Big Pharma for stem cell extraction or whatever shady black market placenta ring they’re running behind those double doors.

I wasn’t even going to mention that part to my husband. Not tonight. I’ve already subjected him to enough late-night monologues about how “they” are probably using discarded placentas to make anti-aging serum for billionaires.

During the last class, we practiced Newborn Care. We had a mixed-race couple in the class, and I choked down a laugh when the instructor, who had previously laid down all white baby dolls for the couples, hurried to replace one with a brown baby doll. Nothing like watching a flustered instructor scramble to find the “diversity doll” like it was a last-minute casting call for Woke Toy Story.

My husband was praised for his swaddling skills. “Oooh, that’s a nice swaddle,” the instructor cooed, clearly impressed. It was such a perfect reflection of who he is—equal parts tender and precise. Swaddling is nurturing, yes, but also technical: a firm tuck here, a smooth fold there, like origami with a heartbeat. I felt a flush of pride watching him, calm and capable, and silently decided: this would be his job. Swaddling duty—assigned.

If you’re teetering on the edge about whether or not to take childbirth classes, let me just say this: do it. Wholeheartedly., because there’s nothing quite like watching the person who once bragged about parallel parking on the first try get absolutely humbled by a plastic pelvis and a PowerPoint on mucus plugs.

Sure, you’ll learn valuable stuff—like how to breathe through contractions, the stages of labor, and that yes, someone can poop during delivery and still be considered a radiant goddess. But the real magic happens in the moments in between. Like when your instructor casually mentions that early labor can last days, and you make panicked eye contact across the room, silently agreeing that you're not emotionally prepared for that. Or when he pulls out a notebook mid-class to take notes—not because he has to, but because he wants to get it right for you.

It’s also the perfect setting to ask the questions you were too afraid to type into Google at 2am: How bad does tearing really feel? Can I still eat nachos during early labor? Why does everyone keep saying “golden hour” like there’s going to be a string quartet and a standing ovation?

Even if your birth goes nothing like the diagrams or diagrams of diagrams they show you, just knowing what could happen somehow makes it less terrifying. Plus, if nothing else, childbirth classes give you and your partner a shared foundation—so when the time comes and you're six centimeters dilated, naked, and screaming about the thermostat, they'll at least know why.

Take the class. Laugh together. Panic a little. Whisper snarky comments during the swaddling demos. You’ll walk out with more knowledge, more confidence, and an entirely new level of intimacy that only comes from watching someone practice diaper changing on a plastic baby like their life depends on it.

For more humorous essays, check out Greenwoman founder Sandra Knauf’s memoir, Please Don’t Piss on the Petunias: Stories About Raising Kids, Crops & Critters in the City, available on Amazon.