I look around the room. There are a total of five couples. One lesbian couple, and four pairs of one man, one woman.
I climb between his legs and as I bend, my pregnancy pillow shoves up between my breasts.
“Breastfeeding comes after you’ve given birth,” Josh hisses.
I turn toward him and hide my wardrobe malfunction, reaching up under my skirt to pull the pillow down. As I get it back in place and pull my arm out, I lose my balance and fall face-first into his crotch.
“I know I need to be a convincing hetero here, but you’re taking this a little too far, Amanda!”
I scramble up—to the extent that you can scramble with fifteen pounds of pillow attached to your belly—and as I turn around, I see a wall of suits in the window. Must be the mucky muck tour. As I straighten my dress and prepare to sit down, I make eye contact with a man in the crowd.
It’s Andrew.
Who looks right at my belly.
And smiles.
“Sometimes the universe works in mysterious ways,” Sunny says, opening the class. “We can’t know what the divine goddess is thinking when she sends messages our way. All we can do is enjoy the journey.”
Andrew looks at me and arches one eyebrow. Then he mouths the word “Work?”
I shrug.
He nods. The suits go by en masse, like a pack of gazelles.
I hold up my hand to my ear and pretend it’s a phone.
He nods and turns away, talking to someone who looks like he belongs in a Fidelity Investments commercial.
Josh yanks my hand.
“Get between my legs,” he murmurs. “We’re supposed to be pretending.”
“If a woman’s between your legs, you’re definitely pretending.”
“Was that Andrew out there?” he asks, wrapping his moist arms around me. I lean back. Resting against his chest is like leaning back against a line of horizontal marshmallow roasting sticks.
“Do you have an ounce of body fat on you?”
“No!” he crows. “Thank Crossfit. Isn’t it great?”
“You’re about as comfortable to snuggle with as a croquet set.”
“That’s not what my boyfriends say!” he retorts, a little too loudly. One of the other dads gives him a funny look.
Josh kisses my temple and says loudly, “I love you, honey.” He strokes my hair like he’s petting a chinchilla, then reaches down to stroke my belly.
I shiver.
“You’re a really bad actor.”
“You’re a really bad pregnant woman. I wouldn’t trust you to raise a Sea Monkey.”
“Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves, now that you’re snuggled into the arms of your love muffin,” Sunny announces.
Muffin. That’s what Josh reminds me of. He’s starting to shake, and he is about as soft as a hairless chihuahua.
“I’m Sunny. I’ve given birth three times and have two sons and a daughter. I had water births for all three, and my youngest was born in the ocean, with two dolphins as midwives.”
“How do you get medical insurance to cover dolphins?” one of the expectant mothers asks. I snort, loving the sarcasm.
Everyone stares at me.
Oh. She wasn’t joking.
Sunny just laughs and smiles beatifically at her. “It’s your body. Your baby. You can give birth wherever and whenever you like.”
“Can you get an epidural in the parking lot?” another expectant mother asks.
I can’t tell if she’s joking or not, so I don’t laugh.
Everyone else giggles.
Andrew’s in the window again. He waves. I swoon.
Josh kisses my temple again.
Andrew glowers.
Introductions are made and Sunny moves on to the always-present birth video. You know the kind. The video of the couple arriving at the hospital, the mother wearing makeup and feeling twinges that will soon erupt into controlled groans of intense concentration, the cries of joy, ending with a baby at the breast and the requisite Mylar balloon bouquets brought by happy grandparents.
At least, that’s my understanding of birth from cable television reality shows.
The lights dim, and the movie starts.
“Why are we looking at someone’s toupee?” Josh whispers at the opening frame.
“That’s not a—”
“Aieeee!” Josh squeals as it becomes apparent we’re looking at a crotch shot from 1973.
The frame changes and focuses on the silhouette of a very ripe, pregnant body, the woman wearing a diaphanous gown, her hair long and ribboned with white flowers.
If she weren’t pregnant, she’d look like an ad for a douche product.
“Childbirth is as natural as time itself,” the narrator declares.
“That makes no sense,” Josh complains in a whisper. “Who writes the scripts for this shit?”
“You’re going to blow our cover,” I hiss. “You need to look like all the other partners.”
Josh pretends he’s a deer caught in headlights.
“Perfect.”
“I love you, sweetie,” he says in a stage whisper, kissing my temple again.
“You touch my belly with that moist hand and I will make you massage my feet,” I declare.
Josh flinches. He hates feet. It’s an anti-fetish for him.
A guy behind us taps Josh on the shoulder and says, with sympathy, “Pregnancy hormones are a bitch, dude.”
Josh nods and returns his eyes to the movie just in time for the frame to change to an anatomy drawing of a woman’s genitals.
Then a live-action picture of the same parts.
“Is it always so pink? And wet?” Josh asks under his breath. “Where does the wetness come from? Is it pee?”