I woke up at 3am with this memory on my mind. It humored me. So I’m sharing.

Roll back the calendar to 5.5 years ago.  I was home after giving birth to my 3rd baby.  I had no pain relief.  I begged.  They said it was too late.  The anesthetist said that it would take him 45 minutes to get the epidural in my back, and that I was just too far gone. I shouted at the poor guy, ‘how FAT do you think my back is?! Give me the drugs!’ He didn’t. I’m convinced that they were all lying to me.  Regardless, I pushed this kid out old school.  I felt like both a super-hero and a worn out rag.

I was in the house all of 12 hours before the first midwife came to visit.  In the UK they have a wonderful support system where midwives and health visitors come to check on you at home, pretty regularly for the first few weeks of your new borns life, to make sure mum and baby are well.  Wait. Back track, did I mention that I lived in the UK for 13 years, married a British guy and all 4 of my kids are brits and used to call me ‘mummy.’  I’ll circle back to that another time.

Anyway, I was home a whole 12 hours.  I had given birth the night before.  I mustered the strength to take a shower, wash, dry and straighten my hair.  I even put on my nice sweatshirt and sweatpants.  Perfume. Mascara. I made Mike vacuum and light some nice smelling candles.  It was morning, a knock at the door came.  I opened the door and it was the midwife, right on time.  However, I didn’t recognize this lady.  She was a midwife covering my normal midwife’s docket while she was on holiday (I had seen Sue, my usual midwife for all of my pregnancies and though she was a little socially awkward- I grew to love her).  I don’t remember the name of the substitute and did not take the time to learn it.  Let me tell you why.

I opened the door.  I invited her in.  I was proud of myself because again, I showered, my house is clean and so on.  She walked over the threshold of my doorstep, crinkled her nose, squinted her eyes and inhaled in a disgusted fashion.  She said immediately,

‘Do you have a dog?!’

‘No, I replied.  I have three children and a husband.’

‘Oh.’ She said.  ‘I smell a wet dog.’

I took a deep breath.  ‘Nope, no dog,  just the children and the husband.’ I said

‘Come in, lets go to the living room.’

We walked through the house to the living room where the baby was, me thinking ‘this is going to be fun. NOT.  Who is this woman?  My house doesn’t smell, especially of a wet dog. I even made Mike light candles!’  I was furious.  Sleep deprived, hormonal and less then 24 hours post giving birth, I was not in the mood for this.

In the living room we went, and side note, I have always had large 12 x 18 gallery style black and white photos all over my walls, I love them.  She walks in the room, looks at a photo of me and my husband (picture is in this post) and says ‘Ohhhhh, THAT’S what you look like. You look so much better there.’  Are. You. Freaking. Real.

Did she just say that?  Yes, she JUST said that.

She’s come into my house and first of all told me that its smells like WET a dog.  Then, she takes a look at me carrying and extra 60lbs in baby weight, and then looks at the wall (granted I look relatively good), and confirms that I look unrecognizable, unattractive, and just below freakin par.  “THAT’S what you look like”. Yeah well, I’d like to see what you would look like less then 24 hours after pushing a kid with a huge ass head out of your lady space and see what the hell you look like.  I couldn’t believe I showered for this.

Me:

‘have you been a midwife for long?’

(I’m trying to prove that this woman’s lack of manners is because she is a rookie).

Midwife:

‘Yes, going on 6 years.’

Internally, I’m like, GREAT.  She isn’t a rookie, she’s just impolite.

She proceeds to check over the baby. I do not offer her a drink of any sort because I do not want her staying too long in my (smelly) house. She then interrogates me about the baby’s feeding.

Midwife:

‘Are you breast feeding or formula feeding?’

*I know what’s coming, all UK midwives want you to breastfeed.  Just for the sake of being difficult, ornery and letting her know I am TICKED, I respond, ‘Both.’

Midwife:

‘Oh, we don’t want you to feed them with both breast and bottle.’

Me:

‘I am feeding him with both breast and bottle.’

Midwife:

‘Okay, but we don’t want you to mix feed him.’

Me:

‘Who is WE?’

Midwife:

‘*blank* Midwives.’   (not here to name and shame)

Me:

‘With all due respect (which means, no respect AT ALL), I have never met you before.  You have told me that my house smells of a wet dog.  You have also alluded to the fact that I do not look good and the picture of me is how I SHOULD look.  Now you are telling me that YOU, who I have never met are not happy with how I am feeding MY baby.  I am American, and in America, we mix feed.  Fed baby = happy baby, happy baby = happy mommy.’

Midwife:

*crickets*

Long pause.  ‘Okay, well I will have to report this to Sue and she will be in touch.’

Me:

’No problem.’

*Awkward silence.  It’s at this point Mike enters the room, chirpy, offering this woman a cup of tea.  She said no thanks.  I glared at Mike with that non verbal look that translated ‘into heads are going to roll up in here’.

*Mike loiters in the room.  I think he is nervous.  He doesn’t know who or what for, but he loiters.

Midwife:

‘Okay, I can see from the hospital note that you have some stitches, may I take a look.’

Normally, the midwife protocols are to check the mothers lady space if in the event she was stitched up from the birth process… making sure that mum is healing well.  Well, let me tell you something.  Ordinarily, and again, I’ve had a lot of kids.  I normally wouldn’t have an issue with this.  And in the words of just about every midwife and doctor that I have EVER met, they have “seen one, seen ‘em all.” With regard to lady spaces.  So normally, I would not care.  But, there was no way is this ill mannered woman going to see me in all my glory.  HAIL. FREAKIN. NO. Goodbye.

Me: ‘no, I’m all good.  Thank you for stopping by.’

She protested.  She let me know that she again would let Sue know.

I let her know that that was a-okay by me.

I stand up, and proceed to the exit.  I was as cold as I could possibly be.  She follows.  She leaves.  I call the midwife’s office, leave a message for the other Sue, the head midwife who happens to be Irish and I don’t know WHAT it is about Irish women, but they have just got fire in them that I need.  Irish Sue calls me back, I tell her the deal and she is all over it like white on rice.  I feel vindicated and move on with my day.

Morals of this story:

1. If a person walks into your home, that you do not know, and tells you that your house smells of a wet dog, tell them to get out.  (This my friends, was my first mistake).  If you can’t do that, fake a really bad stomach ache and say you need the toilet and that you will see them another time (but obviously never call them back).  No one can argue with someone who needs the toilet.  It is a sure fire way to make someone uncomfortable.  I recommend squirming, holding your stomach or even your booty.  Also, God will forgive you for lying.  I believe it.  Remember, you are the victim.
2. If you have a photographic evidence of yourself whereby you may look better then you currently do, and someone has the audacity to reference or imply to that you have let yourself go.  Verbally, audibly and using words or hand gestures, tell them to stick their opinion where the sun does not shine.  That was my second mistake.  If you can’t do that, refer to my advice in point 1.
3. If someone tries to use the big “WE” in their vision casting for your life, always ask who ‘WE’ is.  Usually ‘WE’ is an entity of people that do not actually know you, or anything about you for that matter.  ‘WE’ constituents make policy for a majority.  We can be used as a bullying tactic and when the ‘WE’ card gets played, all bets are OFF.  Just. No.
4. If someone is a inappropriate, even if just passive aggressive, report it.  i’m serious.  Cause a ruckus. What if I was in a really depressed state?  What if I was suicidal and super vulnerable? What if all I needed to send me down the depression drain was for someone to insult my looks? What if then I was told to feed a baby one way, and that way didn’t work for me, and the kid incessantly screamed, and it drove me into anxiety, disconnection, etc?  There are endless what if’s here.  Also, if it has happened to you, it will happen to someone else, and they may not be able to advocate for themselves- but you can.
5. I still do not look like the girl in that picture.  I no longer weigh 127 pounds.  Add 30 to that.  I no longer wear layers of MAC makeup.  Love the stuff, but I’m trying to let the face breath a bit.  And I am okay with all of that, because I am not into letting society tell me what I should weigh, look like, or what I need to do to be beautiful.  And neither should you. If you ask me.

P.S. Word to all my midwife readers:  this was a one off experience.  In my bazillion times of interacting with those in your field, I have only ever been met with kindness, love, and strength.  Except for this one time, which I think are pretty good odds.  You all are O.G.’s.