Yankee lost in Dixieland

Today one of the advice-seekers writing in to "Miss Manners" asked how to decline an invitation, actually a demand, that she and her husband attend her sister-in-law's "birthing party." As in, the sister-in-law was having a party while giving birth.

I imagine we can assume it's Baby #1 for said sister-in-law. Still, the mind boggles. Does she actually think she'll be serving canape's? refilling drinks? engaging in witty repartee?

And yet I remember a crucial episode, shortly after we married. Keith called me to report that a friend of his had gone into labor and so he wouldn't be home for dinner. Huh? I was totally confused. He was confused that I was confused. "Sharon's in labor," he repeated. Yep, yep, got that part. But what did Sharon's birthing pangs have to do with our dinner? He was astonished that I didn't realize that of course he was going down to the hospital.

Whoa.

Sharon, rest assured, had a husband on hand. And family. And a host of female friends. "Sorry, but why are you going to the hospital?" I asked in my usual dulcet tones.

"Sharon's in labor," he repeated, as if I, somehow, just could not wrap my pea-sized brain around this fact.

Dulcet tones got considerably more bitchy. "Yes, I know that, but exactly why are you going to the hospital?" I snapped.

Good Person that he is, Keith was able to figure out, far more quickly than I, that what we found ourselves in the middle of was another in a long series of cultural misunderstandings, what I think of as yet another installment of "Yankee lost in Dixieland."

Turns out that when Keith had a regular church appointment (did I mention he's an ordained Methodist minister? probably not as it doesn't come up all that often), he attended many a birth. Turns out it's some kind of Southern thing, or Southern Protestant thing, or Southern Methodist thing, or maybe just a south Louisiana Methodist thing, I dunno, to have the minister come join the show. At that point in my life, not having been pregnant, not having had a baby, I thought that was really weird.

At this point in my life, having been pregnant, having had a baby, I still think it's really weird.

I always had a good relationship with my various pastors, but no way in hell did I want any one of them present while I was in labor. Nor did I want a party. I did not want friends. I did not want family. (Well, let me qualify that. I was pregnant and giving birth in south Louisiana. My family members were/are all up in Chicago. No chance any of them would be around for the birth. So not wanting family meant not wanting Keith's family. And no, I didn't. And on the whole, I didn't want most of my own family. I can see maybe wanting my sister. But brothers? You've got to be kidding. As for my mom, good lord, she'd be wandering around saying she was going to puke and how in her day the doctors just knocked the women out and took care of things.)

The thing is, perhaps I truly am a cold Yankee bitch, but when I'm in pain, I do not want company.

So, when I did get pregnant, I made Keith promise that it would just be me, him, the baby abornin', and the medical professionals. This promise was hard on him. He's a sociable guy. And a Southerner. But geez, I was the one carrying the damn baby, so he had no choice. That's the great thing about being pregnant, you can totally milk the whole woman thing.

I've never received any invitation to a birthing party. Miss Manners advises that should I ever do so, I reply that I am squeamish and guaranteed to faint at the sight of blood and so think it best not to attend so as to ensure that I not take up any of the valuable time of the doctors who should be looking after the mother and baby. I figure I'll just say, "Look, I'm from Chicago; I'm a cold Yankee bitch," and that will be that. Works for me.