Birthing Class #5: Give Me Back My Belly Fruit

I have officially graduated from Birthing Class. (Well, not really. It’s not like you get a certificate or anything. But I think you should.) Through four classes I did not raised my hand, did not ask questions, did not volunteer. I just sat in the back of the class and tried not to throw up. So I didn’t think it would be a big deal if I went to class wearing the t-shirt that I had just made in my screenprinting class an hour earlier. The shirt had a giant picture of my face on it. Traci said it was embarrassing. I said no one would even see it.

For class number 5 we had a new teacher. She was all about in-class participation and even made us wear nametags. When she asked for four dads to volunteer, I looked around and saw that there were only 5 men in the class. Well, I would be the one guy who wouldn’t volunteer. And if the teacher started calling on people, I’d still have a 20 percent chance of not being picked. I must have been emitting an odor of fear, because she looked right at me, identified my name tag, and called me to the front of the class.

The four of us were to have a diaper-changing competition. Wow, what pressure -especially since I was wearing a t-shirt with my face on it, just like a rock star. No worries. My skills prevailed, earning me a victory and a blue razz Super Pop. (Get it? I’m a super Pop. Clever.)

So we’re done with birthing class. Now there’s nothing left to do, but to birth. No problem.