How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane (6 page)

LIGHTS, CAMERA, PUSH!

I
t starts with the money shot.

No preamble, no intro, no warning. Just a high-res, point-blank shot of a pair of legs stretched to maximum capacity. Smack-dab in the middle of them, at the point of juncture, is the bulbous, misshapen knot of flesh that is responsible for the presence of every single person in this delivery room right now.

Yes, there is a birth video.

I recently had the opportunity to view said video,
^*
the one that the husband made five years ago to commemorate the birth of our child.

It took me a moment to understand what I was looking at—we'd never actually watched it, and when I finally did comprehend what it was, I called for my husband with the manly bellow that I reserve for occasions of such magnitude. He rushed into the room, because (a) he's a caring and responsive spouse and (b) he enjoys the sound of panic in my voice.

When he saw what was on my computer screen (and therefore on our afternoon agenda), he took a deep breath, looked down at the floor, and said, “Wow. Okay then. Let's do this.”

We're not “those kinds” of people. We don't take romantic photos, gaze into each other's eyes, or leave loving notes around the house for the other to find. Not that we don't have those feelings—it's just that we're incapable of expressing them like most normal human beings.

We are, what you might call, “unemotional anti-romantics.” Once, before we were married, the then boyfriend was freelancing in an ad agency office alongside a litter of hipster frat-boy types, and I refused to end a phone conversation with him until he told me that he loved me. After several minutes of cajoling, he gave in and whispered a sweet “I love you” into the phone, at which point I yelled, “YOU SAPPY BASTARD!” then hung up on him and cackled myself into a lengthy coughing fit. You may find this distasteful, and honestly I can't disagree. My behavior was deplorable—yet he would be the first to
tell you it was the moment he realized that one day he would make me his bride. Such is the effed-uppitiness of our relationship.

And so this videotape—I'm not sure what made us think that filming the birth of our child was a good idea. In the first place, I can't stand having my photo taken, and that's at the best-haired-and-complexioned of times; I have one barely tolerable camera angle (15 degrees to the right of center, chin tucked, half-open-mouthed smile) that has taken me years to perfect, the result being that in most photos, I tend to look like a brain-injured wax version of myself. So why I thought that having a video camera trained on me, during a wildly uncontrollable medical procedure, from what is a terrible angle for anyone not starring in a porno flick . . . well, I really can't say. Another thing I really can't say is that there was an ulterior goal in the making of this birth video—i.e., that we hoped to show it to the child's first boyfriend on her prom night . . . or that we were planning to upload it to YouTube in hopes of my junk becoming the next v(ag)iral sensation. There was virtually no good reason to film it.

And still we filmed it.

And now, God help us, we are going to watch it.

         
“Using your mind it is possible to enter into a state of relaxation so complete that your delivery can not only be easy and enjoyable, it may even be a pleasurable experience.”

That was what the hypnobirthing brochure promised.

Now, I am generally pretty suspicious of anything that smells even vaguely New Agey; I am so anti–New Age that just the sight of a man's naked feet in sandals makes me nauseous.

And then there was the obvious question: did we
need
a birthing class? Does anyone, really, considering that birth is the single most common act of the mammalian species, next to dying, taxes, and seeing the musical
Jersey Boys
? It was going to happen whether or not we attended a five-week, $250 hippie fest fifteen miles from our home, right?

On the other hand, I am a big believer in formal education; I'd take a workshop in armpit farting if I thought it would improve my technique enough to include it on a résumé.

But the real reason I signed us up is that when it comes to hypnosis, I am, what you might call, the ideal candidate.

When I was in junior high, our school was visited by a mentalist-hypnotist known as “Reveen!” who performed his entire routine for three hundred seventh and eighth graders just before lunch. Although it didn't carry the titillating potential of a Friday-night dance-and-heavy-pet-athon, the event was exciting enough to draw a full-house crowd (if you don't count the twenty or so kids who sneaked out to the basketball court to get high).

When Reveen! took the stage and asked for volunteers, I threw my hand into the air and stormed the stage. That's how I became a featured player in Reveen!'s “stage hypnosis act.” I was later told that during the forty-five- minute
presentation, I shouted “BOCK BOCK!” and laid a nestful of (mime) eggs, I played a (mime) drum solo during the biggest rock show in history, I (mime) canoed across a gator-filled river, and when Reveen! directed me to leap into the (actual) arms of the nearest male teacher and hug him as though he was my long-lost love, that's what I did.

I don't know exactly how or why his techniques worked, but the fact is that I was clearly “suggestive” to this portly, jet-black-toupeed man, on what amounts to pretty thin grounds (i.e., my desire to help him entertain a mob of prepubescent teens in a gymnasium that smelled like feet).
^*

Now that I actually have a good reason for undergoing hypnosis—i.e., I am preparing to pass a pumpkin through the eye of a needle (and a flappy one at that)—I believe that my suggestibility will be stronger than ever.

With six weeks to go until D(ue) Day, the husband and I took our spots on a carpeted classroom floor with five other couples in various stages along the pregnancy continuum. We went around the room introducing ourselves, and it didn't take long for the husband and me to realize that we were surrounded on all sides by people who use words like
Empowerment, Nurturing
, and
Sacred Space
, and say them frequently and often with closed eyes and weird, serene smiles.

After a few minutes, a woman floated into the room, dressed in a flowing muumuu-esque outfit that had no clear beginning or end. This was our instructor, Linneah, and as she pulled out a bunch of sage and then set it on fire, wafting the smoke around the room “to remove the negative energies and unwanted spirits,” for a moment I wondered if she was talking about us.

There were phrases to chant (“Innnn . . . Ouuuuut . . . Gentle waaaaaves of waaaaterrrrr”) and breathing techniques to help “breathe your baby out of your vagina.” There were videos to watch and diaries to keep. And there were relaxation tapes, voiced by Linneah herself, which we were instructed to listen to every night, despite the fact that Linneah's speaking voice sounded like Fran Drescher on tranquilizers.

And although the five-week course challenged every bone in my immature (SHE SAID “BONE!” HAW! HAW!) body, and every week I came down with a stress headache from struggling not to giggle every time Linneah spoke, lit incense, or cupped my cheek in her hand while recommending a brand of olive oil to rub on my perineum,
^*
we persevered because we both felt that, considering we were about to be parents, it was important that we rise above our juvenile tendencies. Also, Linneah had a strict no-refunds policy.

During the fifth and final class, we learned that one of our classmates had gone into labor early. Linneah reported that, not only had she done it all without
medication and in near silence, but her attending nurses had been so impressed they'd dubbed her a “Hero Warrior Goddess.”

I couldn't wait to be a Hero Warrior Goddess.

During the final class, after a little in-class potluck celebration that featured six varieties of lentil salad (and one box of Fig Newtons hastily thrown into a Tupperware bowl in an attempt to appear homemade—thanks, us!), Linneah showed us one more movie, the pièce of vidéo de résistance.

The documentary subject was a woman in labor awaiting the arrival of her midwife for what was to be a simple, sweet home birth with her husband and toddler by her side. But just as her contractions began to build, she learned that the midwife was having car trouble and would not likely make it in time.

I leaned forward on my yoga ball and watched through my fingers as the woman on the screen squatted on her bathroom floor. From behind the camera, a shaky male voice asked, “W-what do you want me to do?” The now-panting and mostly nude woman looked into the lens and answered, “Oh, just hold the camera.” And then she proceeded to reach down and deliver the first baby.

Oh, did I fail to mention that she was giving birth to TWINS?

After handing off the first
^*
baby to the father/cameraman, she then REACHED BACK UP INTO HERSELF and
uttered a quiet but emphatic, “Ah, shit. She's breech” (i.e., upside down; i.e., not optimal; i.e., HOLY CRAP-CAKES).

This naked-from-the-waist-down Hero Warrior Goddess then delivered her second baby, single-handedly, deftly and ably, and, aside from a few well-placed grunts, without complaint. By the time the midwife (who really should be chewed out for not getting her oil checked before heading out to deliver a G.D. baby or two) showed up, there was nothing left for her to do, aside from enjoy a spot of tea along with a play-by-play of the missed event.

Aside from the fact that it was more dramatic than anything Michael Bay could pull out of his own vagina, watching that movie in Linneah's classroom that night instilled in me a powerful combination of confidence and self-assurance in my own ability to handle my impending labor. If this woman could self-deliver twins in her bathroom (and not a very big bathroom at that), surely I could deliver
one
baby in the comfort of a well-lit hospital with medical help, plenty of ice chips, a yoga ball, and
Austin Powers
^*
playing in the background.