NCT
Monday Musings has been shelved for the past few weeks as Louise signed us up for NCT classes on Mondays. You’d think my blog would be prioritised over such matters, wouldn’t you? The first class fell on my birthday. We’d taken the day off work for this and big things were planned. However, after walking around Roundhay Park, we got home and both fell asleep on the sofa while watching a Denzel Washington film. Louise is heavily pregnant, what’s my excuse? Is this what 31 looks like?
Keen to show my wild side hasn’t deserted me, I had a glass of champagne left over from the weekend with dinner. It is probably unnecessary to pre-drink before an NCT class on a Monday but I’m currently reading Mike Tyson’s autobiography and, when he wasn’t punching people, he drank lots of champagne. Sometimes he did both things simultaneously. This was one of my odder book choices.
Within seconds of arriving at the church hall, Louise was animatedly chatting to expectant mothers about due dates and recommended prams. I poured a glass of blackcurrant cordial and exchanged flat smiles with the men.
“So. Babies?”
They all seem like good guys although I’ve found myself envious of one of them — a well-dressed chap who has slotted into the role of both class clown and class cool guy. Whenever an opportunity arises to make a gag (which isn’t often — hypnobirthing doesn’t lend itself to too many one-liners) he nips in a split second before me, leaving pregnant ladies giggling and me, looking at a frightening picture of a placenta or an umbilical chord, thinking about what might have been.
Our teacher is an odd woman in her forties, who has an accent which I can’t place. It sounds a bit Australian — perhaps she had a gap year there which turned into a gap decade? During our first class, the cool guy/class clown/all-round-better-guy-than me asked her a fairly serious question about what do when your wife goes into labour and she thought about it for a while, before saying.
“Just go with the flow.”
This was worth the cash then.
She offered similarly vague advice when a lady queried what foods she should avoid.
“Eat whatever you want.”
Oh.
Last week, she asked whether all the men in the room were going to be present at the birth. Of course, we all nodded sternly.
“I once had a man who didn’t want to be there. He was sat just where you are,” she said, pointing to a man with a beard.
We had a discussion about why the man didn’t want to be there — the underlying theme being that this man, whoever he may be, was a bit of a prick. After the discussion, our teacher seemed to forget that the man was from a previous group and he was, in fact, the man with the beard.
“If you really don’t feel comfortable, that’s okay,” she said sympathetically. “You might make it worse if you bring negative energy into the room.”
He looked baffled.
Towards the end of the class, we were talking about babies’ hair when she stared straight into my eyes and said.
“Asian babies are often extremely hairy,” before taking a sip of water, looking to the floor and falling silent for what felt like an eternity.
As we were stood around looking at pamphlets and saying our goodbyes, she approached Louise.
“I’ve never seen any dirty babies, Louise. Although I’ve never worked in South Leeds.”
She paused.
“There is a lot of deprivation in South Leeds.”
“Ok, thanks. See you next week then.”
So far, Louise has dealt with being pregnant exceptionally well. There were a couple of wobbles in the early weeks — including sobbing uncontrollably during Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway — but since then, relatively plain sailing (I think.) She bobs around on a giant bouncy ball in the living room most evenings, watching Keeping up with the Kardashians — why this can’t wait until maternity leave, I don’t know — and reading what other expectant, mostly-American, mothers are saying on her pregnancy apps. Some of the stories are brutal.
“I’m due to give birth next week and my husband has just told me he doesn’t love me anymore.”
Sad emoji.
The only issue has been her strange sleeping patterns. I have long relied on Louise to tell me what is going on in films and TV shows, yet when I sought clarification over Simon’s chequered past in Doctor Foster, she responded with a snore.
On the flipside, she is often wide awake at 4am and does that thing where she coughs slightly louder than necessary or accidentally shoves me, then says.
“Oh, you’re awake too, Andy?”
“Huh?”
“Great. I’ve just been watching a video about whales. Look, aren’t they beautiful?”
I am no innocent party. Last week, I woke her up as I was writhing around, breathing heavily and sweating.
“Are you okay, Andy? You’ve been really agitated — what are you dreaming about? Must be something exciting?”
I was dreaming about playing football.
Not playing in a world cup final.
Playing 5-aside football with my mates.
The deep recesses of my subconscious mind take me to Goals Soccer Centre in Leeds. I wasn’t even having a good game. What a tragic lack of imagination.
On that note, I’m pleased to announce that my second book has (kind of) been accepted by my publisher. The lady who runs the company said, “I feel confident we would like to go ahead with you on this.” Surely that is a yes, isn’t it? I don’t want to count my chickens just yet mind — she hasn’t yet finished the book so may not have read the bit where I discuss the computer game, Championship Manager, at length.
Fingers crossed it will get the green light. I won’t say watch this space because it’s annoying but hopefully it will be out next year at some point. I’m also considering self-publishing a collection of Monday Musings, with the addition of some bonus material, of course. I’m not a complete con artist.
We shall see. With all that’s going on in our lives at the moment, writing is not my priority.
Trying to get a laugh at NCT class is.
