Which means I’m cranky.
“Moist,” I hiss at my fake baby daddy. I am waddling down the hallway to the media room where our hypnotic childbirth class will be held. Josh looks like he’s afraid a giant vagina with teeth is lurking behind every corner, ready to jump out and eat him.
“Is this the right room?” he asks as we stop in front of the clearly-marked Hypnotic Childbirth class sign. His hand is over his eyes as he peeks out between fingers.
“It’s not like we’re watching It Follows or Friday the Thirteenth, for goodness sake,” I hiss. “It’s just the miracle of birth. And no one is going to ambush you with a beaver in the hallway.”
He wipes his inner elbow across his brow. “I’m sorry, Amanda,” he grouses. “We’re not all perfect little mystery shoppers like you. Frankly, this is freaking me out beyond belief and I really wish Greg could have done this with you.”
“Greg? As the father of my baby?” I caress the baby bump I’m wearing. It’s a weighted pillow underneath a maternity dress, with a layer of loose Spanx between the two. My hips widen as if I’m really pregnant, and I find myself waddling slightly. While I have a few friends from high school who have kids already, for the most part I’m surrounded by twentysomething and early thirtysomething friends and colleagues who remain childless so far.
Other than Jeffrey and Tyler, I don’t spend time with kids. And no babies. So walking into the conference room where we will sit for this four hour childbirth class catches me off guard, as a giant watercolor painting the size of the entire wall hits me square in the face.
It’s an enormous, layered labia with a red rose coming out of the vagina.
“Oooo, Georgia O’Keeffe!” Josh exclaims, stopping short. His hand is on my elbow now. There’s a male possessiveness to the gesture that gives me pause.
“That’s not a flower,” I whisper. The labia are various shades of beige and mauve, with irregular lines that—
“Oh, my God,” Josh gasps, his grasp tightening. “Is that a vag? It’s the size of a Transformer.”
“It’s the newest female Transformer,” I whisper. “Vulvatron.”
“But what does it transform into?” Josh asks, whimpering as he puts his hand over his mouth and grips my arm.
“Do you like the painting?” says a cloud of patchouli oil. “It’s one of mine.”
We turn and look to our left to find the last hippie in all of Boston. No, really. She looks like someone age-lapsed a picture of one of the flower children at Woodstock and handed her a plastic baby doll with a...pelvis?
“Hi. I’m Sunny.” She reaches out to shake Josh’s hand. “Congratulations on your blessing.”
Her smile is radiant as Josh lets go of my elbow and shakes her hand. “I’m Josh. This is Amanda. My, uh, wife.”
That just sounds creepy now.
He puts his arm around my shoulder and looks at the wall labia with enormous eyes. “That’s quite a display.”
“Pussies usually are,” she says, reaching to shake my hand. “So powerful. So divine. So innately in tune with the essence of life and the spirit of oneness.”
I’ve read the Hypnotic Childbirth manual in preparation for this mystery shop, and while I know that the program encourages couples and teachers to use “natural” language, this takes me by surprise.
“P—P—P...” Josh sputters.
“Marie calls it ‘Chuckles’,” I whisper to him.
“That really doesn’t help,” he hisses back. “Now I won’t ever be able to look at that stupid cat without thinking about—” he flails his hands toward the painting “—that.”
“It looks like everyone is here,” Sunny announces, holding up a clipboard. “My hospital board corporate overlords insist I take attendance.” No one laughs except for Sunny, who thinks her own joke is hilarious.
I realize that underneath the patchouli there is a distinct scent of something a little greener.
“We might have some mild interruptions from a big tour going on with the mucky mucks,” she adds as she briefly goes through calling out our names. She waves toward the window to the hallway. “Hospital donors. Something about a new cancer wing.”
We all turn to see a janitor pushing a mop bucket along.
“If they pop in here, just moan like we’re pretending to do controlled breathing for contractions and they’ll go away,” she says, drawing titters from the crowd.
“Please have a seat,” Sunny instructs us. I look around. There are no seats. Only backjacks, like at a meditation retreat, and a giant pile of pillows in the same shades as the labia on the wall.
“Partners, take a seat at the backjack. Mamas, grab as many pillows as you need to get comfy and sit between your partners’ legs.” I dutifully grab a pillow as I watch four other mamas in various states of pregnancy waddle over and grab four or five pillows.
Josh snickers. “This’ll be the first time I’ve had a woman between my legs.”
I whack him with the pillow.
“That’s right,” Sunny says dreamily. “This is all about fun. You had fun putting the baby in there, and we’re gonna make sure you have fun getting the baby out. It’s all a dance, people.” She shimmies her hips. “We’re dancing that baby out.”
Josh looks up at me, his back nestled against the backjack, his legs scissored open like he’s taking a yoga class and starting to stretch.