“Good morning,” our instructor sings out. “Mary-Joe-Ellen Brown. That’s my name. And yes, that’s three first names,” she says holding up as many fingers. “I come from a long line of them.” She moves a few oversized donut- shaped cushions around at the front of the room, and arranges what appear to be breast milk receptacles on a large table. “There’s Sarah-Sue-Beth, Kelly-Jane-Emma, and even a Billy-Joe-Bob. You don’t have to see my birth certificate to know I’m from West Virginia,” she laughs. “And you,” she coos out over the course of a full breath, “are in breastfeeding class.”
“Anybody know what this is?” she asked. In response to the silence from a class of about twenty, she took the foamy brown object and lowered it down to her left lapel. “I’ll give you a hint,” she said, moving it into position against the material of her patchwork dress. She cut the silence of the classroom: “It’s….a… BREAST!”
It was 9 a.m. and we sat mostly side-by-side as couples, all of us speechless at this gesture. Two rows over, at Mary-Joe-Ellen’s proclamation, another new dad was caught mid-sip on a mocha frappuccino. Dumbfounded, he slowly wiped the foam from his upper lip as our instructor repeatedly squeezed and released the prosthetic in a cold and calculated manner, establishing eye contact with each person in attendance.
“Get used to it, guys,” she said, offering out the foam breast once more. “We’re going to see a lot of ‘em today. We’re going to talk about them, look at pictures of them, even watch videos of them (Yes!). By the end of the day,” she said assuredly, “you won’t want to see another nipple for months.” I, along with the other men in the room, politely held our tongues.
Mary-Joe-Ellen gave us a rundown of the morning’s busy program and explained that for the sake of time we could call her ‘MJ’ for short. As luck would have it, our morning was to culminate in what she excitedly touted as the definitive lactation video in existence today. But not before we paused after the first hour of class for a “solid food snack,” as she playfully referred to it. That, and a bra fitting. After all, what would a breastfeeding class be without a bra fitting by Carla, earnestly described as The Bra Lady.
“Been fitting bras for fifteen years,” MJ bragged. We had passed Carla on the way in, and Genny and I were now thankfully able to put a name with the lively woman. She had called out excitedly in our wake as we trailed off down the hall, “See ya at the break—I can fit ya from fifty feet, Sugar!”
By 9:30, with the sun peeking through the thirdstory windows, MJ has exhausted every possible use of the word areola. She’s warned us of the challenge of inverted nipples, flat nipples, and generally uncooperative situations. We learn that the time mom spends breastfeeding is the equivalent of the 4th trimester. Directly following birth, much like the 19th hole at a golf course, the breast is the first place baby wants to go when he’s parched from the long journey. Most importantly, we learned a nurse’s assistance would be provided to us on the spot as the new mom attempted for the first time to nourish her baby naturally.
MJ relayed a recent story to calm our collective nerves. “Just last week we had a girl, cute as a button, but I mean to tell you she had nipples flatter than the state of Kansas. We went in there and expressed a little and those suckers popped out like a Thanksgiving turkey thermometer– PLOOP!”
Quick snippets like this one were becoming more common in our lives, more the norm than the exception. They’re meant to comfort, of course, but I saw them as the first indication of a general shift in conversation, in the way we communicate with others around us.
I’ve heard new parents talking, whether at parties around the ranch dip or during the occasional powwow outside the grocery store. They speak in worn tones about their newfound ability to survive being pulled in several directions at once. They relay tales of countless hours without sleep or relieving their bladders. Tales that rival the oppressive training conditions astronauts are known to face. Like other bands of warriors who face adversity together, there is camaraderie among them. They are soldiers in the same war. I surveyed our band of brothers and wondered in earnest which of us would come out alive.
Chris Layton’s book, “Holy Sh*t: We’re Having A Baby,” is a humorous memoir recounting pregnancy from the perspective of the dad-to-be. Tales of co-ed baby showers, breastfeeding classes and house hunting take on new life when told through the voice of the anxious dad. Chris is currently unrepresented as an author.
~ Chris Layton
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