Today’s Local News » In which I am disqualified from child rearing

In which I am disqualified
from child rearing

Friday, July 20, 2007

I’ve decided that child-care classes are in the rarified category occupied by Stephen Hawking books and exercise equipment assembly manuals. They don’t actually impart information; they simply notify you how woefully uninformed you are.

I discovered this after attending my first child-care class with my six-months-pregnant wife. The topic of the class was “Learning to Care for Your Newborn,” and what I learned is that I am unqualified to care for any child of any age. It’s a good thing the class isn’t graded, because I’m not sure I could pass before the delivery.

Right off, the sheer volume of information overwhelmed me. The class was taught by a kindly woman who called all the women “mom” and all the men “coach.” She started things off with a half-hour of nonstop child-care directives. When can you sunscreen your baby? After he or she is 6 months old. How often will your baby need to eat? Every three hours. What’s the most important thing you need to buy? A car seat. Where does it go? Strapped to the hood of your car. (Or somewhere else — it was hard to keep up.)

None of this was news to my wife, who nodded sagely through the entire presentation. Meanwhile, I was scribbling notes so fast that my paper almost caught fire.

Our class continued with some hands-on experience. Apparently the hospital we were in didn’t have enough newborns to accommodate every couple in attendance, because we used dolls instead. My wife and I took turns changing diapers on the doll. When it was my turn, I gingerly fastened the diaper, taking care not to touch the fake baby if I could help it. The instructor came over to inspect mine. “It looks a little loose,” she said.

I looked down. My doll’s diaper was so baggy that he looked like a nascent MC Hammer.

Next we learned the “football hold” for a baby, which despite what you have heard does not involve spiking the baby at any point in time. It consists of tucking the baby under one arm and cradling its head with your hand. I was great at this, except when I put the doll down too hard and his head hit the table with an audible thud.

Once more, my wife knew all of this. I was beginning to suspect that she had been attending this class in secret for months, and our instructor was just pretending not to recognize her.

We finished the class with a video on newborns. The video began with the narration, “Newborns look very different from what you see in movies and advertisements,” then provided a series of video clips that made the point vividly, inescapably clear.

At some point it hit me: Having a kid is going to be the strangest experience of my life. Stranger than string theory, stranger than a David Lynch movie. No one would believe it, if not for the fact that everyone with children goes through a similar experience.

I have three months to prepare, and I’m starting to feel the pressure. That baby doll is going to be worn out by the time I’m through with it.

Charles Wesley is a programmer/analyst. His column runs Fridays. Reach him at charles.wesley@tlnews.net.

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