Small Talk

It happened again.

I was in the library, watching one-year-old Dilly climb on and off a child's rocker. Another mother sat nearby with her six- or seven-month-old in his stroller. We struck up a conversation, discussing the weather (in the South, the weather is a topic of genuine interest) and admiring each other's children. "Is she your only one?" asked the lady. I replied, no, I have two more, and pointed out Ladybug and Titan.

Then I asked, "How many children do you have?"

Those are the words that came out of my mouth. But as happens so very many times, the other mom completely misheard what I asked. What she heard, evidently, was, "How many children do you have, and do you plan to have any more, and can you assure me that you're well within the culturally-sanctioned limits for family size? For added interest, can you tell me what delicate procedures have been performed on your body that will keep you within those limits?"

By the time Dilly lost interest in the chairs and I was compelled to follow her to another section of the library, I knew all about this stranger's family plans. I knew she had two children, one in kindergarten because they wanted to wait until their first was older before having their second. I knew that they had trouble conceiving this second child, even though she'd been off birth control for a year. I knew that this is her last child, and that she'd had her tubes tied to ensure it. In all this gush of information, I never actually got her name.

I, like almost any woman who has given birth, find the topic of childbirth and fertility fascinating. My sister and I have long, detailed conversations about topics that makes my husband, August, run for cover. ("I just don't need to know that much about your sister.") I spent many a playgroup discussing sensitive material with other moms while our toddlers played obliviously nearby. If that's the topic at hand, I'm all ears. But a casual inquiry into how many children you have, especially from someone you've never seen before, does not qualify as introducing that particular topic. The inquiry is called small talk, which rarely if ever involves bodily functions.

Often these women assume that I enjoy the same open dialogue, and ask me, "And are you going to have any more kids, or are you done?" Increasingly, I want to reply, which of course I won't although my friend Swistle says she'd pay money to hear me say it, "Oh, I don't know. I still enjoy having s*x, personally. Was it hard for you to give up?"

Then again, that might inspire an entirely new turn of small talk. Best just to stick with the polite smile and quick escape.