“Welcome! Welcome, everyone! Please, come in, select a mat on the floor and take a seat,” a spritely, wiry-haired woman proclaims from the hallway, clapping her hands twice.

The swarm of round-bellied women and their significant others that I’ve found myself in breaks up and follows her command. Quickly, Jeff and I settle down on a mossy green yoga mat on the far side of the circle. Most of the men are seated, straddling their partner, but Jeff sits next to me, and I rest my head on his shoulder.

A few weeks ago Doctor Highman recommended we sign up for one of the hospital recommended child birthing classes, and she provided me with a list of classes ranging from traditional baby and me to Lamaze to hypno-births (who knew that was actually a thing?). The class wasn't a requirement by any means, but I figured it would give Jeff and me a solid peace of mind when coming to terms with what's to come.

I had no idea that I should have signed up for this nonsense before conception even occurred because I was waitlisted for nearly every one I called. But I finally found success when I was able to register for a four-class series called Mother Flower. After quickly perusing the description, I deduced it was good enough to get us through this thing called childbirth alive and in one piece.

The woman walks into the classroom. Her floral tunic swallows her whole as it’s easily three sizes too big and her John Lennon-style glasses sport lenses thicker than Coke bottles. I was expecting a nurse to be leading the course, and this woman is most certainly not a nurse.

“Hello, everyone!” she regales in what I can only describe is an over-charismatic theatre voice. “I’m Deborah, and welcome to Mother Flower: A Blossoming Birth. Over the next month we're going to explore the zen of childbirth and learn all about the alternative coping mechanisms that you can use in labor and delivery.”

Um … exsqueeze me?

“Alternative coping mechanisms? Like blaring Nirvana and Pearl Jam during labor to drown out my harrowing screams?” I whisper to Jeff.

“No, babe. Alternative ... like drug-free.”

I whip my head toward Jeff so fast that my hair slaps him in the face. “What?” My voice jumps three octaves, and Deborah stops her overdramatic monologue to look at me.

“I'm sorry? Did you have a question?” Her palms are pressed together in front of her chest like she’s praying and I’m only now realizing just how much of a loon this woman actually is.

“Oh, no. I just … I just thought a spider was on my ankle.” I swat at the cuff of my pants, pretending to brush away an imaginary insect.

I want the drugs.

I like the drugs.

I definitely will need the drugs.

Jeff leans back to my ear. “Yeah, I thought you realized this was an alternative birthing class.”

My face contorts in horror, and I can feel my blood pressure jump in a panic. “Does this look like the face of someone who intentionally signed up for some hippy dippy alternative birthing class? Drugs are totally natural!” I whisper, but it’s loud enough that the entire class can hear me. I swallow hard and divert my attention back to Deborah, but find it challenging to focus on her words.

“Before we really get into the ins and outs of your bodies and childbirth, I thought we’d do a little ice breaker? You know, since we’ll be spending a few hours each week together for the next month. Let’s each go around the room, introduce ourselves, and tell us about the last movie you saw?” I softly groan at the suggestion, loathing any kind of group activity that involves sharing. “How about we start with … you.” Thankfully she gestures to a young mocha skinned woman with a man who could easily be in his fifties.

The woman perks up. “I’m Jade, this is my husband Walter and this,” she places her hands on her stomach adoringly, “is little Kitty Sunshine.”

For some reason unbeknownst to me, the entire class breaks out into a polite golf clap. I lean over and whisper to Jeff, “Is she having a baby or giving birth to a My Little Pony?”

“And let’s see … The last movie we saw was The Quince Tree Sun. It’s this incredible biography of a Spanish artist named Antonio Lopez. It closely follows his agonizing plight to paint the perfect tree in his backyard.”

Um … That sounds … riveting?

“Seriously? I’d rather watch paint dry than be subjected to that torture,” Jeff whispers.

Couple after couple introduces themselves and I realize just how uncultured I am. Stuart and Jane? They quite enjoyed Ma Vie en Rose. They lost me at the word “subtitles.” The lesbian couple across from us? They’re obsessed with this drama called Maria Full of Grace where a pregnant teenager from Colombia works as a drug mule transporting cocaine in her stomach to the U.S. And the androgynous hipsters also known as Sawyer and Bennie? They don’t believe in televisions or movies or anything remotely entertaining, but they do spin their own organic yarn in their spare time and make baby blankets and tiny hats for the NICU floor. So obviously they are far better people than Jeff and me.

I shift uncomfortably on the floor as the couple next to us prattles on about Selma. I tried watching it, I really did, but after about twenty minutes I traded civil rights for a home renovation show that was far more interesting. Hey now, don’t judge. I never said I was a good person. And yes, I’m well aware I am probably going to hell.

Jeff squeezes my hips when the silence in the room lasts a beat too long, and I realize that everyone is staring at me. “Hi, everyone.” I raise my hand awkwardly in a half wave, trying to hide the anguish of this exercise on my face. “I’m Henley. This is my fiancé, Jeff. And the last movie I saw was this award-winning British documentary about the struggles of a modern day woman on the path of self-discovery. In the process, she falls in love with not one, but two men, who fight for her returned affection.” Kitty Sunshine’s mother looks at me expectantly, and I quickly continue. “The film was so powerful it made me cry. And the cast was truly outstanding.”

“This sounds empowering! What’s the film called?” Jane asks from across the room.

I bite my lip and swallow hard. “Um, the name escapes me right now, but this was a moving and life changing film. Everyone has to see it! I’ll look up the name and let everyone know next time.” Which is a blatant lie because there’s no way in hell I’m ever coming back here. But the class blissfully nods in approval and moves on to the next couple in the circle.

Jeff’s breath tickles just below the curve of my jaw. He speaks softly so he doesn’t interrupt the next couple giving their introduction. “What on earth are you talking about, Henley? The last movie we saw had Hugh Grant, Renee Zellweger, and that guy from The King’s Speech.”

“Yeah, the last movie we saw was Bridget Jones’s Diary. But I can’t let them know that!” I gesture to the gaggle of vultures mentally criticizing my every word. These were, no doubt, the kinds of parents who will only allow their children to eat organic foods, exclusively use essential oils instead of over the counter drugs, and have had their children listening to Mozart in utero since the moment they peed on a stick.

I can feel my eyes roll to the back of my head as the final couple begins to wax poetic about some obscure award-winning indie movie that their dog walker’s next door neighbor directed.

“Oh my God. I am so shallow!” I hiss into Jeff’s ear.

“Babe, you’re not shallow. Nobody here is judging you.”

I snort inadvertently. Does this man not know me at all?

“I know nobody is judging me. But my twat is judging them!”

“So you’re vajudging them?” He snickers to himself, amused.

“I’m going to be vajudging you if you don’t start behaving.” I elbow him in the ribs playfully.

Much to my surprise, the class doesn’t focus on the anatomical part of childbirth. I suppose that’s because we all know which pieces go in which parts that led us into this glorious predicament. What this particular class does cover is more along the lines of a new age therapy session.

“I want to make sure that beyond the birthing basics, everyone here is getting something personal out of the class. So if you ever have any questions, please feel free to interrupt and ask away. Now, tell me, what are some of your biggest fears? It could be about pregnancy or the birthing process or anything that is weighing on your mind?”

A tiny woman with mocha skin shoots her hand into the air and doesn’t wait to be called upon to answer. “The pain! I am absolutely terrified of the physical pain. I know I want a drug-free birth, but I know this is going to hurt.” Her boyfriend, husband, whoever, rubs his hands up and down her arms, trying to calm her down.

“Ah, yes, the pain. Everyone seems to be so focused on how much it will hurt rather than what awaits you on the other end of the birthing process. Let me tell you this, ladies and gentlemen. That pain? That pain is all in your head. And the epidural you crave is actually a crutch and can—and will—prolong your labor. Drug-free childbirth is a very euphoric experience and better for both you and the baby.”

“How is being in excruciating pain better for me?” I whisper to Jeff. He squeezes my hand reassuringly, and I direct my attention back to Deborah.

“It’s a natural high. Those endorphins will kick in, and you won’t feel a thing. If anything, you’ll feel ah-mazing! But I can promise you this—the eighteen years that follow your child’s birth day will be far more painful than the duration of labor and delivery.”

The class laughs, but good ole Deb has immediately lost all street cred in my book. Sure, women have been having babies for thousands of years with the vast majority pushing that kid out in less than ideal places without drugs—behind a tree in the wilds of Africa, or on the Oregon Trail while her partner died of dysentery as the oxen pulling the wagon drowned in a river. Or hell, even in a McDonald’s bathroom. But in the era of modern medicine, there is absolutely no reason why I should subject myself to such torture.

And for her to insinuate that my decisions are wrong just because I want a little cocktail of anesthetics to wash down each contraction? That’s just … just … deplorable! Just because I can get a root canal without the use of laughing gas doesn’t mean I should.

I shoot my hand up into the air, ignoring the drug-free diatribe. “So for those of us who, in theory, may want to experiment with said drugs, you know, in case the pain that is in my head is actually manifesting in my vagina considering a child is trying to claw its way out, when would you recommend asking for the epidural?” My tone is snarkier than I expected. But if she can be smug about it all, I can too.

“What I would recommend for anyone wanting an epidural is to register for a traditional birthing class where you can learn all about the toxic chemicals they inject into your body, and therefore, the baby’s bloodstream.” Deborah gives a dramatic moment of pause and nails me with a look that screams shut the hell up, woman.

But right or wrong, the last thing I need—or want—is more judgment. My decisions are mine and no one else’s. Except for maybe Jeff. He’s part of this, too.

“Rather than focus on your need for an epidural and pain that may or may not happen, what are you most afraid of, Henley?”

Pooping. I’m still terrified that I’m going to deliver a six-pound deuce right alongside a six-pound baby.

I hate that she’s calling me out in front of everyone, but I know that I can’t be entirely truthful here. And my mind goes back to the day Tara traumatized me. “Tearing. I’m scared that this baby will literally tear me in two.”

“Ah, yes. The episiotomy …”

I zone out and try to redirect my anger and annoyance as Deborah goes off on a tangent about tearing and stitches and how the body can miraculously heal itself probably with the help of a concoction of unicorn hair, petals from a silver orchid, and essential oils.

Jeff pulls me closer against him. “That’s nothing a little duct tape and Gorilla Glue can’t fix, Henley.”

“That sounds like a scene from a Godzilla horror film.”

“Pretty much. But then again, isn’t that childbirth?”

After all of our questions and fears have been addressed, Deborah takes the last part of the class to guide us through a series of body positions and breathing exercises. It’s part Kama Sutra and part yoga.

Arch your back this way.

And hold your partner like this.

Apply pressure here.

No, not there. Here.

Focus on opening your soul to new life.

And blah … blah … blah …

Good Lord, this woman is ridiculous. And just when I think it can’t get any worse, it does.

“Your body is a wild rose. And as you prepare to give birth, your body blossoms and your rose petals open, and your sweet nectar is exposed.”

Jeff hides his head behind me and stifles a laugh. I elbow him again, trying to keep a straight face. Somehow everyone else around us is capable of keeping themselves together, and all eyes are on us.

Deborah clears her throat. She dares not look in our direction, but I’m sure that if she did, the glare would be our murder. And to my utter mortification, she demonstrates how she wants all of us to lay back and bend our knees, exposing our ‘sweet nectar’ to the world. When she stands, she walks around the circle, correcting our bodies and continuing with the lesson.

“Now breathe in through your nose … and out through your mouth … do it with me now. In slowly through your nose … and exhale through your mouth.”

She makes a high-pitched wheezing sound with each and every breath. I’m pretty sure I heard this same sound during a fifth-grade field trip to the zoo where I witnessed two hyenas going at it. It’s not very becoming of her.

Deborah walks throughout the room, making sure we’re breathing properly. She stops in front of us and kneels down beside me, putting her hand on my knee. “Henley, I know you feel silly. But when you breathe through your whole body without inhibition, you’re breathing life into your baby and helping bring him or her into this world. Just try it with me.” Her gaze pierces right through me, as serious as a flesh eating bacteria.

I will myself to keep a straight face, swallow my pride and follow her lead, wheezing in and out with an animalistic sound I didn’t know I had in me.

“Very good.” She pats my leg and gets up to assist another couple.

Jeff turns to me. “We’re never coming back here, are we?”

God, I love how this man practically lives in my brain.

“Nope.”

Once we’ve recovered from Deborah and her insane attempts to turn my loins into a flowering blossom, or whatever she called it, we take up residence in a hole in the wall coffee shop for a late afternoon snack.

Jeff hands me a croissant and a hot cup of tea, then goes back to the counter to grab his coffee and slice of pound cake. I love the strong smell of this place. The glorious aroma makes me wish more than anything that I could indulge in a cup of Joe. And by cup, I mean the whole damn pot. Stupid pregnancy rules about avoiding caffeine.

He takes a seat across from me and breaks off a piece of his pound cake, popping it into his mouth.

“We should probably start talking about names,” Jeff says, his mouth full of food.

I haven’t thought about names because I’ve always subscribed to the philosophy that you need to actually see the baby before you can choose the name they’ll be called for the rest of their life. It’s a heavy responsibility when you think about it. I mean, what if little Miss Kitty Sunshine has the disposition of Maleficent on meth? Or was born to rock the resting bitch face? That name simply would not suit her.

Even still. I suppose we can at least start to talk about it. Nobody is going to make us decide right here and now. But if he’s asking to discuss potential names, he obviously has something he’s gunning for.

“What’d you have in mind?” I ask before taking a sip of tea.

“Well, I’ve always like the name Clinton. Clint for short.” He pauses, examining my reaction, but I don’t give him one. “It’s strong. Presidential. Masculine. Any guy named Clint is a real man’s man. Like Clint Eastwood!”

I narrow my eyes, rolling the name around in my mind. I don’t hate the name Clint by any means, but it just doesn’t feel right.

“Clint?” I ask.

Jeff nods with a proud smile plastered to his face like he’s solved world hunger. “Mm-hmm. It’s impossible to make fun of a kid named Clinton.”

“Really? It’s impossible?” I guffaw. How is this not more obvious to him? “You’d be welcoming him to years of torture in high school once sex ed classes happen.”

Jeff raises an eyebrow, challenging me in disbelief. And I’m shocked that this isn’t more apparent to him.

“It’s true!” I say. “Aside from the obvious ‘Clit’ nickname snafu, you also run the risk of Clintoris. And God forbid someone forgets to dot the ‘i’ in his name, it’ll look like his name is—” I lean over onto my elbows and whisper, “—you know ... the c-word. You may as well name him Vulva or Fallopian.”

Jeff drops his jaw, processing the thought of his strapping young boy being named after female anatomy, and doesn’t say a word.

I lean back in my chair again and add, “Besides, you still don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

He purses his lips. “Touche.”

I split my croissant in half and take a bite, absorbing his silence for a few moments.

I swallow hard and suggest the obvious. “What if we just wait and see what this baby looks like? We could fall in love with a name now, and it may not even suit the child.”

I don’t want to tell him that no matter what happens, I get veto power over the name. Everyone knows that the mother is supposed to win the name game. No man in his right mind would watch his significant other go through the whole painful and dramatic ordeal of childbirth and say “no” when she asks, “Doesn’t she look like a Eunice VonKlepto?” as she cradles the baby in her arms the first time. Sure, naming the kid is a joint effort, but he’s not the one pushing it out.

“I can agree to that ... on one condition.” He smirks knowingly.

“What’s that?”

“The names of any ex-boyfriends are off the table.”

I snort. He’s delusional if he thinks I’d name this child Leo or the name of any of the buffoons I dated long ago. Even still, his request is reasonable, and one I can agree on.

“Same goes for ex-girlfriends then, too.” I nod in agreement. “I do have one name I’d like to veto now, if that’s okay with you.”

He opens his palm, gesturing me to continue.

“No Kitty Sunshine.”

He narrows his eyes and gives me his best cat that ate the canary smile.

“No Kitty Sunshine? No problem. Because no son of mine is going to have a name worthy of an eighties Saturday morning cartoon character.