infant cpr
A few weeks ago we went to an infant CPR class – the most surreal event of a surreal few months. Pretty much the entire experience was disturbing. The hallway of the building where the class was held reeked of homelessness (no idea why), and the room was adjacent to an Army recruitment center. During a break in class I was wandering around the lobby and a fatigue-clad recruitment officer noticed me (an able-bodied man) through a conference room window and almost leapt out of his seat.
The class itself was held in a beat-up room with about fifteen wobbly
desks, each equipped with a plastic baby. A slightly dirty plastic baby. We received a thoroughly exhaustive overview of infant CPR from a spastic, wiry middle-aged woman whose temperament was far from reassuring. Traditional borders and boundaries do not apply to the kinds of women that teach birth and baby-related classes. In the past few months I have seen women my mother’s age manipulate their breasts to demonstrate feeding positions and crawl on all fours on meeting room tables to perform proper labor-easing hip gyration. I’m just not comfortable with anyone being that comfortable.
After sanitizing our respective babies’ faces with moist towelettes (a process that made the experience even more gross), we were lead through what felt like hours of simulated chest contractions and forced breaths. Counting to thirty again and again in unison (along with a metronome!) while chest-compressing is not unlike group aerobics, and Julia looked like she might pass out several times. And after our instructor ran though every conceivable choking scenario (I don’t think Julia will ever let our kid with 200 yards of a balloon) I was light-headed as well.
The last time I heard the word choke used so frequently in conversation was when I was training jiu-jitsu, but then it meant something positive and altogether different. Most of the resuscitation technique discussion seemed to focus on what could go wrong, and the fine line between prepared and paranoid was pretty much obliterated. After a "bonus" fifteen minutes of adult CPR and a PhD dissertation worthy breakdown of car-seat safety, we were finally allowed to leave. After walking safely past the recruitment center, through the hallway (holding our breath) and out into the night, Julia turned to me and said, "Well, that pretty much sucked." It sure did.
The class itself was held in a beat-up room with about fifteen wobbly
desks, each equipped with a plastic baby. A slightly dirty plastic baby. We received a thoroughly exhaustive overview of infant CPR from a spastic, wiry middle-aged woman whose temperament was far from reassuring. Traditional borders and boundaries do not apply to the kinds of women that teach birth and baby-related classes. In the past few months I have seen women my mother’s age manipulate their breasts to demonstrate feeding positions and crawl on all fours on meeting room tables to perform proper labor-easing hip gyration. I’m just not comfortable with anyone being that comfortable.
After sanitizing our respective babies’ faces with moist towelettes (a process that made the experience even more gross), we were lead through what felt like hours of simulated chest contractions and forced breaths. Counting to thirty again and again in unison (along with a metronome!) while chest-compressing is not unlike group aerobics, and Julia looked like she might pass out several times. And after our instructor ran though every conceivable choking scenario (I don’t think Julia will ever let our kid with 200 yards of a balloon) I was light-headed as well.
The last time I heard the word choke used so frequently in conversation was when I was training jiu-jitsu, but then it meant something positive and altogether different. Most of the resuscitation technique discussion seemed to focus on what could go wrong, and the fine line between prepared and paranoid was pretty much obliterated. After a "bonus" fifteen minutes of adult CPR and a PhD dissertation worthy breakdown of car-seat safety, we were finally allowed to leave. After walking safely past the recruitment center, through the hallway (holding our breath) and out into the night, Julia turned to me and said, "Well, that pretty much sucked." It sure did.
posted by Justin at 5:31 PM
2 Comments:
no balloons. ever.
our child will have a balloon-less life.
you probably already know about this but the parkslopeparents and bococaparents listservs are going to be invaluable to you for things like this. you will pretty much find the best of whatever it is you're looking for - CPR classes, products, etc. you can join on the yahoo groups page.
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