The sonographer squirmed uncomfortably, looked up at the screen, down at my belly, anywhere but me. She eventually must have decided humour was the best way out: “No, but I do have some very demanding dogs!” I laughed politely, all the while making a promise to myself. Never. Again. I will never ask a woman if she has children again.
The first time it happened I was at Woolies, loading up the conveyor belt with highly processed, definitely non-organic groceries as the toddler shrieked melodramatically in the trolley. “How old?” asked the woman at the check-out. “Ah…” I began the familiar routine of trying to work out just how long my daughter has been alive (twenty months? Twenty-three? Dear God, have I missed her second birthday altogether?).
The woman smiled knowingly when I finally got there. “I’ve got one her age,” she said, scanning my panty liners. “He’s a dictator.” Buoyed by this comforting disclosure I asked if he was an only child. Her face immediately closed, but her smile remained.
“He is,” she said. “I did have another one, but he died.”
There it was. The brutal, not sugar-coated truth, when I have to admit all I’d been wanting was a pleasant, forgettable conversation with a stranger about our mutually exasperating offspring. I left the supermarket feeling terrible but I have no doubt she spent the rest of her shift feeling far, far worse.
You’d think this exchange would have stopped me for good, but no. On recent a trip to Spotlight to navigate the highly confusing world of block-out nursery blinds for bub #3, I did it again to the woman trying patiently to explain window recesses to me.
“I bet you’ve got a kick-ass set up at your place!” I said, jealously imagining perfectly darkened rooms with perfectly behaved children napping perfectly within. After all, she’d shown interest in my kids and asked me questions about them, she was an oracle on all things blindy-shutty, and she had that mumsy-chic vibe.