BD and I attended a breastfeeding class today.
Prior to this class, BD had a grand time making fun of the potential awkwardness of what exactly a "breastfeeding class" entails. [Would we have to personally share our experiences? How personal will this get?] I'm relatively modest and "relative" becomes "extreme" when it comes to my body. BD knows this, respects this the majority of the time, but kind of treated this morning like Christmas, because he knows how awkward I am. I'm not a morning person and I am pretty sure that BD hopped out of bed, spent his requisite 30 minutes playing with his cats and watching ESPN, and then burst back into the room to wake me up.
This wake up process lasted about 20 minutes and consisted of BD using his cat-play voice, convincing me to get up and be excited about our pending educational opportunity. I really think this may be one of his favorite things about being married to me. For those who have lived with me in the past, I have managed to scare everyone from breathing near me in the morning, much less throw cat toys and beg me to get up in a singsong voice. However, I have met my match with BD.
Moving on. We make it out of the house on time, despite my threats to piddle. We even have time to stop for breakfast and still walk into our class with one minute to spare. Luckily for me, this class had six couples, so it wasn't like walking into an auditorium full of people. Because walking into a room full is kind of [EXTREMELY!] a highly anxious thing for me, I tend to duck and work the sides of the room.
BD had a different idea.
We bustle into this room that is set up like a classroom, complete with desks and as I am signing us in [ahem, is it that hard to have a proper sign-in pen? hellloooo, it's like your first impression, except for the fact that you are permanently inscribing your name to this document, but I'm off topic] BD yells "DESKS!" and runs to the front row.
The front row?!? of a breastfeeding class? Is he kidding me? We are directly in front of the instructor. We will get called on. And I DO NOT want to get called on in a breastfeeding class. No. Thank. You.
As he is screaming "DESKS!" and staking out the front row, he is dramatically tossing desks aside and then loudly states "I need a left hand desk!" Meanwhile, I am holding my head down, while trying to discretely sit in a desk near my husband. After all, nobody else is going to claim him.
Both BD and I are lefties; however, this doesn't seem to be anything that BD really identifies with. In fact, when you ask him what hand he writes with, he will say "Both! I write with my left, but I'm really ambidextrous." Which, actually, isn't true, but it's one of those hot topics that BD has a rehearsed response to [for others, please bring up the OJ Simpson murder trial, Steven Seagal, Steven Seagal verses Chuck Norris, Steven Seagal verses Sylvester Stallone, the downfall of the NBA, the sign warning truckers of the cut-in-the-hill on 75N in Kentucky, just to name a few]. So, you can imagine my surprise when I see BD passionately searching for the correct desk. For him to sit in. At 9:30 on a Saturday morning. For a breastfeeding class.
And then it hit me. He was totally THAT guy in high school. He proceeded to confirm this theory for me as he boastfully said, "I always got the left hand desk in school."
Somehow, that doesn't surprise me.
PS. The class wasn't awful, and proved to be very informative!
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