The Goal
Page 73Emotion wells up in my throat. I have no idea how I wound up with such amazing friends, but I’m sure as heck not complaining.
*
“You don’t sound too excited about this,” Tucker comments twenty minutes later. He holds the door to the community center open for me.
“And you are?” A yellow sign decorated with balloons greets us. “This process is so hard that I have to learn how to breathe? That’s not normal.”
“You watch any of those YouTube videos?”
“God no. I didn’t want to psych myself out. Did you?”
“A few.”
“And?”
He gives me a thumbs-down. “I don’t recommend them. I’m wondering why we use brass balls to describe someone who’s really strong, because after the second video, my balls tried to climb inside my body. Plus, my YouTube history is officially fucked.”
“Ha. Exactly why I didn’t watch any.” I wag a warning finger at him. “Stay by my head during the birth or you’ll never want to have sex with me again.”
“Naah, I can separate the two.” He drags his hand down my spine to rest it on top of my butt, which, like my boobs, is growing in size. “This ass is made for tapping.”
“So anal is all I’m going to get after childbirth?”
He grins broadly. “Why not both?”
“John Tucker and Sabrina James.” Tuck introduces us both.
Stacy doesn’t shake his hand. Instead, she makes a prayer gesture. “Please find a mat on the floor.”
“This is going to be too hippy dippy for me,” I murmur as we make our way to the three rows of yoga mats spaced out on the floor. The room is mostly full, but we find an empty mat in the back.
“It’s a lesson on breathing. I think that’s the definition of hippy dippy.” Tucker helps me into a seated position. “Want me to practice giving you injections instead?”
“Maybe?” I’m only half joking. I read that there are complications with medications, and I haven’t decided if I’m going to opt for the epidural.
The lights dim and Stacy moves deeper into the room, hands still folded in prayer.
“I think she knows something we don’t,” Tucker murmurs in my ear. “That’s why she’s praying all the time.”
“She knows that no amount of meditation is ever going to make childbirth pain free.”
The man next to us clears his throat. Tucker chuckles softly, but we both shut up.
In the front of the room, Stacy turns on a projector. The words “Welcome to Labor of Love” appear. And then she proceeds to read off the slide.
“We’re here to help ease you through the labor process. The mainstream media and health organizations feed you an endless supply of fear and paranoia, but the truth is that childbirth does not have to be a painful experience. Today we will start our journey to a joyful and pleasurable labor. These three classes will help you refocus your negative feelings, drawing in serenity and pushing out fear.”
“Are we in a breathing class or signing up for a cult?” Tucker whispers.
“Partners, helpers, move into position behind the mama.”
“I already hate this woman,” I hiss as he crouches behind me.
“Because she called you mama or because she says it’s not a painful experience?”
A man a few mats down raises his hand. “Where should we put our hands?”
“Great question, Mark.”
Oh God, she remembers all our names.
“During labor, the appropriate position will be the lower back, but for today, we’re concentrating on relaxation, so please place your hands on your partner’s shoulders.”
Next to me, one expectant mother is taking copious notes, as if Stacy in the peasant skirt is the oracle of laborhood, speaking the ten commandments of birthing.
“If she says, ‘There’s nothing to fear but fear itself,’ we’re out of here,” I say a little too loudly.
The gunner and her equally serious partner turn around to glare at me. A burble of laughter threatens to escape. Can we get arrested for disturbing the peace in a breathing class?
Stacy waves her hand toward the projection screen. “First we’ll watch a short video of the appropriate breathing pattern, and then we’ll practice.”
The video consists of five minutes of a woman panting, her lips forming different shapes while her partner counts off.
“Foam,” I say instantly. “She’s not even sweating. I sweat just trying to get my shoes on.”
After the video ends, Stacy goes around the room to check on all our breathing positions. “Deeper breaths, Sabrina. John, please rub a little harder. Place your fingers closer to her neck. Her neck needs more attention.”
His fingers start rubbing a long path along the side of my neck, drawing out a low moan. Shit, that does feel good. I guess Stacy’s right. I did need more attention on my neck.
“Good job, John,” Stacy coos. She straightens and addresses the class. “Now, I’d like you all to imagine a favorite memory. Something very good in your life. Close your eyes and bring that recollection to the forefront. Pin it to the wall of your mind’s eye.”
“I’m envisioning one of us is a Cyclops.” Tucker’s breath tickles my ear, and I start to feel something completely inappropriate downstairs.
“Maybe the one eye is your dick,” I counter.
The couple next to us huffs loudly. We both ignore them this time.
“All this shushing reminds me of the library.” His lips brush my earlobe. “Actually, it’s worse than the library because there’s no tables to hide my hand creeping inside your skirt.”
I squirm. “Shut up.”
“She told me to go to a favorite memory. Most of those involve either my big head or little head between your legs.”
“The important thing,” Stacy says with a raised voice and a pointed glare in our direction, “is to find peace. Now close your eyes and picture your happy place.”