For a bloke, this has to be one of the most traumatising times of your life, and I would almost say it is more awkward than getting a surprise boner at school…
I am talking about going to a baby class, a class that is targeted to hormonal, grumpy, sleep-deprived witches that have just squelched out a sprog and now they want to meet others who have done the same.
As a bloke going to one of these classes you need to have your wits about you as these witches already hate you because you have a penis and for me that is intimidating.
I have worked out a way to deal with this traumatising experience and all I do is try and laugh it off and if the pressure gets too much I then look at each one of the witches and wonder what poor chap had to do that to get it pregnant.. That makes me feel so much better.
When the class starts the class leader starts singing a song you have never heard of and you have to join in… while mary and her voice of strangled angels are hitting notes that I could only reach while tugging on my nuts with a pair of mole grips I am left forced to try and do an impression of Pavarotti and lets not forget I am no singer.
So I have failed at singing and then they start throwing hand signs in to the equation as well and then you are feeling the smirks of the women staring again as you bumble you way through trying to work out the how the gesture of stars is the same as rain… who thinks up this rubbish.
A sigh of relief comes at the interval where you can escape and feed, change nappies and chat… er no… they don’t want to speak to you and chat. I had better luck trying to chat up women with terrible chat up lines in a nightclub than I did trying to make small talk with these witches. However, you slightly hesitate or fumble a nappy all hell breaks loose, and you have 12 squawking pterodactyls telling you what you did wrong.
Then as your class draws to a close, you are pleased and start getting ready to get the hell out of there, and suddenly the witches want to chat and ask where mummy is but what they want to really know is why I am not away at work earning the bacon… oh, it is because I hate our cleaner more than you lot and I would rather come here than listen to her whine on.
So as you can guess I hate these classes and if I had it my own way I would not bother with them at all. But the thing is Baby Grumble loves them and seeing her light up as the instructor women sings and flaps around like a fish out of water makes my day, so I will drag my sorry arse along to them for as long as they will have me or I do something really inappropriate and I am asked to not return again.
If you are a woman reading this and you go to one of these classes spare a thought for the poor fathers who attend as it is hell and we promise we won’t hit on you straight away.