Breathing Lessons

The Other Half and I attended my final antenatal class on Saturday, which was specifically for moms (or “mums,” I should say) and their partners. I admit that I was nervous about how he would hold up considering his phobia of hospitals and anything medically-related. He won't even watch Grey's Anatomy with me, but, then again, that might only be partly because of the medical "ick factor"; it's probably mainly because of the soap opera "ick factor." So, anyway, I thought I might have to spend the whole class reassuring him that everything would be okay. But he rose to the occasion and even managed to stay conscious when we took a tour of the delivery suite. Since then, he has been surprising me with the amount of information he took away from the class. I'll be sitting at the computer, for example, and he'll comment on how my posture is good. Or we'll be lying in bed at night and he'll remind me to practice my breathing techniques. And even though he may grumble about things like car seats and strollers, I think deep down the technical side of him is finding it kind of exciting to research the best models and check out the latest reviews.

As it is, I think I'm starting to get more nervous and anxious than The Other Half. It's finally hitting me that this baby has to come out. I know this seems like an obvious fact that I should have known from the beginning, but I don't think that it has become a reality until now. For so long, we've been talking about "the baby" in the abstract sense of the word, but pretty soon it will be a living, breathing human being that will be completely dependent on us. It's an exciting feeling, but it's also very daunting. I've spent so much time thinking about what it will be like once the baby is here that I haven't really stopped to think about how the baby is going to get here. And as much as I have gained from these antenatal classes and am grateful for the opportunity to have had access to this "free" education, I sort of feel like I've been given too much information. Maybe it would be better if I just walked into the hospital a little naive.

"Just breathe," I keep telling myself. It will all be over before I know it, and the last nine months will have been nothing but a blur. Then, for the next 18 years (or the rest of my life, really), I'll have worries that will make my fear of labor seem pretty trivial.