Last night was our third NCT class, and they don’t get any less odd. In the UK we have the NHS, a society wide health service. We had the option of attending the NHS Child Birth Classes for free.
And swiftly decided not to.
The NHS has a set child birth lesson structure that doesn’t take into account what you want to focus on and you only get told the party line. So if something is unorthodox or expensive you’ll never hear about it through them. Plus we didn’t want to rub shoulders with the proletariat scum. *ahem*
So we bought the private NCT classes and paid for NCT membership which wasn’t required but supports them as the NCT is a charity organisation. The private classes means we hear about everything available and get to focus on the things we’re interested in. It does have a drawback though …
We both have to be sociable.
Shudder. There’s a group of about 12 of us that meet up every week to learn new and disgusting things about giving birth and childcare. So we turn up, make small talk and learn strange arcane things. This is great for the women, they get to meet others who are undergoing the same changes and hormone induced feelings. Less great for the guys, much less.
Guys, let me assure you, this stuff is odd. You’re a spare part, your job is done. From conception on you are along for the ride. Accept it and troll along on the journey.
This week it was about the breathing – and it’s not the pant-pant-count rubbish you see on TV. It was more like Yoga or Thai Chi. Easy enough but why get the guys doing it too? I’m happy to be along for the ride, I don’t want to see the mess, cut the cord or be remotely knee deep in innards.
I’d be happy outside, handing out the cigars in 1950.
