Smokey the Magnificent

So I had the weirdest dream last night. I gave birth to sextuplets. At least, I thought I did, but I was sort of out-of-it during the birth (as one would be, I suspect), and all I remembered were that all the babies were girls, and I felt vaguely guilty for not giving Helpdesk Man a son. But then Mum took all the babies home for the night to give me a break (?!) and by the time I woke up in the morning, I was terribly worried that I’d forgotten to breastfeed them. So she brought all the babies and lined them up on the couch, and I was cross that she’d forgotten which ones were which, because I’d named a few of them. (Can’t remember what - I think one was Kirsten, which is not a name I’d choose in real life, although maybe if I had six I’d be less picky?) And then, to my horror, I realised that some of them weren’t babies at all but dolls, including a Cinderella porcelain doll Grandma sent over from Australia. So I stood there weeping, unable to tell which babies were real and which were dolls, and waiting for the midwife to come and tell me so I could feed the real ones. And I was all worried about how many legitimate babies I had, and hoping that they were somewhat fewer than six for the sake of my sanity. And then I realised that the one I’d beem holding wrapped in a tea-towel was neither a baby nor a doll, but a green plastic sieve I use to sift twigs and stones out of the dirt in the garden. And I was like “Huh, how did I not notice this before?” And then I woke up.

Moral of the story, don’t sleep in. I always have bizarre dreams when I sleep in. But call me a flighty and irresponsible harpy, it was something of a relief to wake up and find myself not the mother of sextuplets.

Or is it Auntie? Aunty Smokey. Auntie Smokey. Aunt Smokering. Hmm. Anyhoo. Helpdesk Man’s sister was induced sometime yesterday, and gave birth to a nine-pounder at 9AM today. Horrific really, fancy being in labour all night. She must be dead to the world. Anyway, we don’t know the name of the dudeling yet, which is odd because they apparently decided on it months ago. Maybe it just didn’t look like one of whatever they chose. Or perhaps they plan to beat the recession by allowing visitors to each submit a name and a bribe, with the honour going to the highest bidder. In which case, kudos. I wonder if our budget would allow me to spring for “Calvin”, just to shake things up? But these are unworthy thoughts. Mazel tov, sister-in-law-person-and-small-nameless-snortlepig.

Those of my Gentle Readers who have pull with the Almighty might want to make mention of my dear sister-in-law, who is 41+3 pregnant and scheduled for an induction on Sunday, which she does not want. I’m encouraging her to bully her midwife into letting her do frequent non-stress tests and biophysical profiles instead of automatic induction, as there doesn’t seem to be any indication of post-maturity; but you can never tell with midwives. Tricksy bunch. So if she could have the baby on her own before Sunday, that would be super. Kthx.

Anyway, while she remains conveniently baby-free I’m taking her mind off it by letting her help me cater for a dinner for her and her parents tonight. Aren’t I nice? Helpdesk Man was supposed to invite his parents over for supper so we could give his mother her birthday present (you know, supper, tea and a biscuit); but hailing from strange and exotic climes as he does, he misinterpreted and invited them for dinner instead (you know, a sit-down meal with food). So sister-in-law and I have a day in which to prepare a birthday feast for six. Woot.

Had a productive day yesterday, at least. The snortlepig, with whom I have frequent battles royale regarding the pulling of books out of the bookshelf, turned her talents to good use and helped me pack the lower three shelves’ worth of books into boxes. Packed some hooks off the wall, shelves, decorative mugs and extra glasses… the house is going to look pretty bare for the next few weeks. Then last night Dad helped me pick up a desk we’d bought off TradeMe. Helpdesk Man and I also managed to scrounge enough boxes from Liquorland to pack an army, at the expense of looking like raging lushes.

We all know that “Are you pregnant?” is one of the worst questions one can ever ask. At least, I sincerely hope we do. If not, let me explain. If you ask a woman if she is pregnant, chances are high that one or more of the following circumstances will obtain:

• She is not pregnant, but carries fat in her tummy.
• She has already had the baby.
• She is having difficulty conceiving.
• She is permanently infertile.
• Her husband is permanently infertile.
• She recently had a miscarriage.
• She recently had an abortion.
• She is pregnant, but wanted to wait before telling you.
• She is pregnant, but wanted to wait to tell you until the person standing next to her in the supermarket line was out of earshot.
• She was about to start trying to conceive another baby, having finally - as she thought - lost the baby weight from the previous baby.
• She had just decided to embrace her womanly curves and buy a trendy babydoll shirt.
• She has a large tumour in her abdomen.
• She is pregnant, but is having difficulty coming to terms with the pregnancy/her new body shape/other life circumstances and does not wish to have attention drawn to the fact.

Savvy? So to recap, never ever ever ask if a woman is pregnant. Well, not never ever ever; if you’re a radiologist about to zap her midsection with psi-gamma-epsilon waves, you can. Should, even. Or if you’re a doctor about to put her on a course of mutagenic dandruff cream. Or whatever. If not, don’t. If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you.

That much we all know. But what amuses me is the way a number of women phrase the issue: “Unless you see the baby crowning, don’t ask”. Catchy and succint, oui… but dangerous advice. Because it leaves the question open: what if you do see the baby crowning? Is it then socially permissible to step forward with a smile and a wink and say “I think someone’s in the family way!”? Surely the reaction of any labouring woman to such a remark would be justifiable homicide.

So what is the correct etiquette, then, when coming across a heavily-labouring woman? As avid a fan as I am of Miss Manners, I believe she was remiss in never addressing this issue. And the issue of complicated by the fact that women in labour tend to have very distinct, divergent and strongly-held views on the matter. Where one woman might like to have kindly, sonsy women tie knots in towels and rub her feet, another might prefer to be left strictly alone, and another might simply want to be whisked away to hospital post-haste. When a woman gave birth on the subway in England ignored by passersby, the world clucked and tutted; but if it were me in such an indelicate situation, that is precisely the sort of reaction I’d wish for. (It’s also a delightfully British anecdote, isn’t it? Stiff upper lip and all that. Maybe she was conscious of a silent, understated, forward-facing wave of English solidarity and rapport which carried her through the difficult moments? Possibly as the new citizen of a once-great Empire emerged the commuters quietly removed their hats as one, and acknowledged - here by a slight twitching of the moustache, there by a clearing of the throat -  the Miracle of Life?)

So on this note, my question for you today is twofold:

1. If you saw a woman in heavy labour - say, in the canned goods aisle at a moderately empty supermarket - how would you react?

2. If you were that woman, how would you want others to react?

Bonus points if you have ever actually been in either situation. Extra bonus points if you remember Worf’s reaction to hearing Keiko was pregnant again, after having been forced to deliver her first child during an emergency on the Enterprise.