“Yes?”
“Take notes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take notes for me. Add them to my daily audio summary.”
“You expect me to take notes while standing in for you at your wife's childbirth class, and make sure they're put into your audio software so you can listen to this tomorrow on your morning commute?”
“Of course.”
“THE TAINT?” she says loudly, making Andrew go back to Mr. Cool Face.
“Just do it.”
“You need a reminder about THE TAINT? Shall I write up an executive one-pager for you?”
He smiles, as if now she understands. “Exactly.”
“Up here, on the table, we have a bowl of olive oil. Partners, dip your index and middle fingers–”
“Andrew?” Gina asks sweetly.
“Yes?”
“Does she mean this finger?” She flips him the bird.
Mr. Cool Face becomes Mr. Sour Puss.
“Fine. Platinum plan, no deductibles, better parking spot, and no audio summary.”
I turn to her. “You can go home.”
“I can? I–I didn’t mean to be unsupportive to you, Amanda?”
“Oh, pffft. I know that. It's just–you negotiated well. Got what you wanted. Now let's watch Andrew stew as he doesn't win. Letting you go home means he doesn't win.”
“HEY!” he bellows from the phone.
“If I don't learn how to do perineal massage, how will Andrew learn?”
I arch one eyebrow at her.
She reddens.
“Gotcha? Okay? Bye?” I've never seen someone back out of a room like that. How does she know where the open door frame is? Somehow, her body manages it, and soon I'm alone.
Alone with my Facetime husband.
“You do understand there is no Facetime at the birth. You'd better be there in full.”
“In the flesh,” he says–and he's right.
Because his voice gives me shivers as he says those words directly behind me.
“Andrew!” My in-person words are echoed on the screen, as he pulls me in for a hug, careful around my belly. All my irritation fades as the familiar scent of him makes me grin. “I thought you were in New York?”
“I realized I could get back faster by helicopter. Wasn't fully certain I'd be there in time, so I hedged my bets.”
“I'm so glad you're here.”
“I wouldn't miss touching your perineum for anything.”
“I think that's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me, Andrew.”
Hope gives us a look that says, Are you done now? I have a curriculum to get through. Andrew sits behind me and I lean back, hips aching but happy, his arms around me the best cocoon I could possibly have. As Hope picks up where we left off, I look at the silicone model, imagine my own tissues, and see Andrew doing the same.
We're learning.
Learning how to help my body experience even the tiniest bit less pain, given what it's about to go through.
That's what childbirth class boils down to, isn’t it? We're not here to master a process. Optimizing it isn't quite right, because the optimal outcome is a live, healthy baby–or two, in my case.
But there's definitely a way to mitigate the negatives and accentuate the positives, and that's what we're doing, as Andrew takes two fingers, oils them up, and begins stroking the fake perineum like he's applying lip gloss.
“We're not painting the flesh, Andrew. We're massaging it. Dig in. You want to help direct blood to the area,” Hope explains.
“Blood?”
“Inside the muscle. That'll help it stretch.”
His hand halts. “Hope?”
“Yes?”
“Statistically speaking, what are the odds of a primiparous twin birth being vaginal?”
“I–I don't know.” She gives him a flirtatious look that makes me want to rip her hair out. “But I'm very impressed that you know how to use 'primiparous twin birth' correctly in a sentence.”
I snort.
“Amanda.”
“Yes?”
“Text Gina that question.”
“What?”
“Text her. She'll know.”
“Why would Gina know that?”
“She doesn't know it, but she knows how to get me the answer.”
“You realize you can just Google it.”
“Why? It's easier to ask Gina.”
“You're adding a step, Andrew. Pull up the browser on your phone, type the question, and–”
“That's an added step.”
“Gina is the added step!”
One of the fathers across the room holds up his phone. “While you two were arguing, I looked it up. About twenty-five percent of twins are delivered vaginally. And then there's the dreaded vaginal c-section.”
Hope clears her throat. “Please don't use negative words.”
A sheepish look covers his face. “Sorry.”
“Twenty-five percent?” Andrew looks like he's weighing his options, fingers now deep in the muscle. “And vaginal c-section is when one twin is delivered vaginally, but the other gets stuck and needs a surgical birth?”
Hope nods. “It's rare, but it happens.”
I shudder.
“Are you calculating the value of your time spent learning this by weighing the statistical likelihood that I'll need perineal massage at some point?” I accuse him.
“Yes,” he confesses. Except it doesn't sound like he has any guilt whatsoever about being so cold and calculating.
“You should do it because you love and support me!”
“Of course I will. Just being pragmatic.”
“Pragmatic!”
“Your mother is an actuary. She does this for a living.”
“My mother is not supporting her partner in giving birth to twins. But at the rate you're going, she might replace you.”
“Hey!” He holds up his hands, one covered in oil. “I'm doing my best here.”
“I'm your wife, Andrew. I know what you look like when you're doing your best, and this isn't it.”
He leans in and whispers, “Normally when I do this, the only lube is from my mouth and I’m using my tongue, not my fingers.”
I freeze him out and watch one of the other fathers use a technique that makes me think he's a middle school band director, using his fingers like a conductor's wand. I get seasick within seconds.
“Okay, then, everyone!” Hope announces. “I know this puts us well into the discomfort zone, but it's so important to make sure blood goes to the right places.”
“It's definitely doing that right now on me,” Andrew mutters as he wipes his fingers on a paper towel.
“Seriously? You're getting aroused by this?”
“It's a pretend vagina and vulva, Amanda. I'm biologically primed to be aroused by it.”
“Are you going to sport an erection when you're watching my vagina during the birth?”
“You're probably going to be strangling me, so I assume the blood won’t be able to travel south.”
I smirk in spite of myself.