"It doesn't matter if you want to or not; you're going," I informed my husband, as I was signing the two of us up for Prepared Childhood Class at the hospital where I will be giving birth.
"I said I'd go to the Lamaze class," he replied, sighing.
"Why are you sighing?" I asked him. "It's going to be a class full of 20- and 30-something chicks who you know put out!"
Even though I know he's only agreeing to go to the class because his colleague who he respects the most did it before he had kids (although this particular colleague made sure to stop at the liquor store before the class to have a drink so he could get through it), I jumped at that statement and latched onto it with both hands.
"OK, we've established that you've agreed," I said. "And just so you know, the class lasts four weeks."
"FOUR WEEKS!?" he said, incredulously. "Why is it for four weeks?"
"Because one eight-hour day would be a lot to learn all about labor and delivery," I said calmly. "So we're going for two hours once a week for four weeks. Besides, you've already said that you're going."
"TWO HOURS?!" he whined. "Well then we can't go on Saturday mornings! That's going to cut into college football!"
"Fine," I said. "I'll sign us up for Tuesday nights. So just know that you have plans from 7 to 9 p.m. every Tuesday in September."
"Whatever," he grumbled, turning up the volume on the football game.
But he said he'll go. This will be interesting.
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