Fourth Beginning
When she thought about it, all her problems could be traced back to that bitch at the childbirth class.
All around the table sat pregnant women with their husbands. There were only couples, most of them a little older than Anna and Aksel. It was the most heterosexual space she had ever been in.
The midwife wore a bright-blue shirtdress and a long gold chain around her neck. Contractions accompanied the anxiety.
“Are you okay?” the midwife asked.
“It’s just Braxton Hicks,” said Anna, sweating.
“I could tell. Would you like to lie down for a bit?”
The midwife gestured toward a bench under a chart illustrating pelvic expansion.
The muscles of Anna’s stomach tightened. With each contraction, it hardened. She felt dizzy and hot and nauseated, her lower back and neck hurt. She didn’t know where the Braxton Hicks ended and the anxiety began. Maybe they were the same thing?
The midwife continued her lecture, something about breathing. Aksel sat on his own at the table and paid close attention. Anna saw that he was taking notes.
All the couples appeared to be in their thirties and have their lives and finances in order, they had steady jobs and many had cars and investment pieces in their homes, they bought the latest design and had spent several years prepping for Project Baby, and then Anna noticed that all the couples in the room were rubbing their faces with their banknotes, they rubbed and rubbed them all over, and they bought all the plant-dyed 100% organic cotton cloth diapers their hearts desired, and they bought slings and natural rubber pacifiers and lambskin rugs. And they bought handmade mobiles with felt clouds to hang over the child’s crib, and they bought aromatic oils to prevent stretch marks and to soften the perineum for childbirth, and they bought lanolin wool nursing pads, and they bought the highest-rated car seats, and they bought big, enormous, atrocious coffin-shaped monstrosities: baby carriages.
Suddenly, Anna understood her mother better than ever before. The midwife said: “You men shouldn’t expect to have food on the table as usual when you come home from work once the baby is born. It’s hard work taking care of a newborn. How much time do you think women spend breastfeeding per day? Take a guess!”
“An hour?” ventured one of the men with an unsure smile.
“No!” the midwife practically shrieked in triumph. “What do you think?” She had turned toward Aksel.
“Eight hours?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” she said, disappointed he knew the answer. “That’s a whole workday.”
“Do you have children yourself?” asked one of the pregnant women.
“No,” the midwife replied, with a click conjuring a PowerPoint slide on the wall behind her with the alarming title Sex after birth.
“Sex after birth!” she screamed. “Don’t worry if you don’t have sex again until six to eight months after giving birth.” Next slide, WordArt. Anna gulped.
A drawing of a red-bearded man in a Fred Flintstone costume on a desert island. Next to him, a crab with eyes on stalks and a big smile on its face (a crabby smile? A crabby face?). On the opposite side of the slide, another island on which stood a woman with a black bob and a pink heart in her arms, so big it nearly eclipsed her. She had been drawn with a sheepish, apologetic grin. Between them was pasted a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. The man and the woman. Two islands — connected by a bridge in San Francisco.
The midwife said: “It’s important that you women listen to yourselves and your bodies. Don’t do anything you don’t feel ready for. As for the men, all I’ll say is that you’ve got to arm yourselves with patience. The mother often has her physical needs satisfied by being with the baby. But you can always try knocking on other doors.”
The room was quiet for a moment.
“The neighbor’s?” asked a confused pregnant woman.
“No, no, no,” the midwife shook her head.
“Do you mean . . . anal sex?” whispered a small, girlish woman on the verge of disappearing behind her giant belly just like the character holding the heart on the slide.
“More often than not, the rectum is just as afflicted as the front,” replied the midwife. “What I’m saying is that there are many other forms of intimacy.”
An awkward silence descended over them as the thought blow jobflashed through everyone’s mind.
“Next slide!” bellowed the midwife. “It’s okay not to love your child! Men, don’t worry if you don’t love the child right from the get-go. It can easily take up to six months for you to feel anything since you haven’t been part of bearing or birthing the child in the same way.”
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved