At which point I usually smile, shake my head, and murmur something about how it's hospitals that really scare me. I can't actually say what's going through my head; that would be impolite, and no matter how much I'm smarting from the sting of the hidden slap, I have no wish to sink to the level of insulting a perfect stranger.

Here's what I'd like to say:

Madam, there's a large difference between "brave" and "stupid," and I think we both know which one you actually called me just now. Your mind can't conceive of a woman honestly wanting a birth without doctors, medications, and the machine that goes "Ping," and you therefore conclude that any woman who would willingly forego those things you see as modern medical necessities must be clearly out of her mind. You pity me my lack of senses, but you hide behind a false show of respect. Don't think I can't see through your sudden fake smile and your eyes that flit around the room, seeking some other conversational partner - one that isn't quite so half-baked as me.

"Brave" is running into a house filled with flames, rescuing young children from their beds. "Brave" is diving into shark-infested waters to pull the frantic injured swimmer to safety. "Brave" is donating an organ so that another human being might get a second chance at life. Put that way, all women who choose to give birth are "brave." Birth is not completely safe, and things can go wrong that endanger both mother and child. "Brave" is assessing the risks and deciding to go forward for the better good of all involved.

"Stupid" is ignoring those risks. You think that I either didn't take the time to educate myself of the potential dangers, or that I decided to ignore them so that I could have the "perfect birth experience." I must be an incredibly selfish woman, endangering my child like that for my own pleasure.

I can't count how many women who, during my pregnancy, heard that I was planning a homebirth and automatically assumed that I was receiving no prenatal care, taking no vitamins, and blithely heading into childbirth without an iota of knowledge about what was going on inside my body. Like you, they were quite surprised to learn that midwives, too, schedule regular appointments with their clients. "But what do they do?" they would ask, unable to picture a prenatal appointment without the involvement of an ultrasound machine, speculum, and examination table with stirrups. One woman asked me whether the midwives would bring an IV pole to my house.

I could get into facts and figures with you discussing how, for the low-risk pregnancy, homebirth is actually safer than hospital birth. I could tell you how I made my choice, cite my references, and prove to you that I made it after careful, detailed research. But I'm not interested in convincing you to have babies at home. If you want to know, you'll ask, or you'll do your own research. Maybe you'll come up with the same answer I did, or maybe you'll conclude that hospitals are still your preferred place to birth. That's your decision, and it's not my position to judge. Who told you it was yours?

Frankly, I couldn't care less about your position on homebirth. I don't know you from Eve. I'm not all that bothered by the fact that you think having a baby at home is dangerous. What irks me is how casually you insult my decision, and how thinly you veil that insult under the guise of a compliment. You don't really think I'm "brave," and your condescending tone further reveals your assessment of my intellect: if I'm too stupid to go to the hospital to have my baby, then I'm surely too stupid to realize when I'm being put down. Well, the insult did hit home, but I'm not feeling chastened. I'm feeling shocked at your lack of tact, Madam. Perhaps it isn't me who should be feeling red-faced at this moment.

By the way, I'm also not fooled by your words when you tell me how "dedicated" I must be to nurse my baby in this coffee shop. Yes, I am dedicated to my son, but "dedicated" is not a synonym for "martyr." Withdraw your claws before you accidentally put your own eye out.

One more thing: if I ever again see you look at my son with that expression of pity on your face, I won't hold my tongue quite so much. My own claws can be just as sharp as yours, and Mama Tiger knows when to use them.