Week 28: Hypno-What?!

Last night we had our first HypnoBirthing class. Now, if you’re like us, you’re thinking, “That sounds pretty wacky.” It might even conjure up images of the hypnotist who performed at your high school graduation after-party. You know, the bowtie-wearing guy with the staticky microphone who made the captain of the track team stand up on his chair and bark like a dog.

Well, HypnoBirthing’s not like that. It’s more akin to the kind of hypnosis people undergo to lose weight or quit smoking. It’s even more similar to the type of positive thinking techniques self-help gurus promote on infomercials.

So what’s a perfectly normal couple like C. and me doing at a HypnoBirthing class? Well, the thing is, despite my initial skepticism and subtle mockery of the concept, it intrigues me. I may shop at Ann Taylor and lust over Pottery Barn furniture, but at heart I’m a little less conservative than I might appear. I’m into feng shui. I read my horoscope regularly. I once tried on a wedding dress made out of hemp. And as my doctor put it, “You’re a vegetarian and you do yoga. You might do well with HypnoBirthing.” She’d already pegged me as the earthy-crunchy type.

So, with visions of patchouli and Birkenstocks dancing in our heads, C. and I pulled up to the house where the class was held. Another couple was stepping out of their Honda CRV. “That guy looks like me,” said C., with audible relief. We scrapped our escape plans and followed them inside.

As it turns out, we are the only two couples in the class. The instructor, Marjorie, makes up for her pupils’ lack of weirdness, however. She is a middle-aged mother of five with a Dorothy Hamill haircut and an intense gaze. She fixed it on each of us in turn as she asked us about our expectations about childbirth, what we did for exercise, and whether we preferred nature sounds to Tibetan chanting. C. filled the nervous silence for much of the class. The rest of us were grateful for his easy banter.

But even C. lost his composure a bit when Marjorie invited us to try various massage techniques on our partners. “My hands are palm fronds, sweeping gently across her back,” she cooed, as she demonstrated on our classmate. “What?!” said C. “Shhhh! Palm fronds!” I glowered back at him.

For next week, we’re supposed to read up on HypnoBirthing vocabulary. (Instead of “contractions,” the preferred term is “waves of energy.” Instead of “water breaking,” we refer to “membranes rupturing,” and instead of “delivery” we say “birthing process.”) We also have to pick out our birthing background music (I’m guessing Gwen Stefani is not recommended) and practice our visualization techniques. I, for one, will be going the Caribbean beach route rather than the balloons-and-blue-silk-ribbons route. Don’t ask. It’s a HypnoBirthing thing.

Weird Symptom of the Week: I’ve forgotten about this feature for a couple of weeks. The latest? Baby hiccups. Either that, or the rhythmic pulsing means the baby has really cranked up the bass on the constant dance party he’s having in there.