Many years ago, I was working in my backyard when I struck up a conversation with a then-neighbor.
This woman had several children who, at the time, were teenagers or nearly teenagers. I didn’t know her that well, other than to say hello. The family rarely came out of the house, so we didn’t have many opportunities to chat. The few times we did manage to talk, however, she always wanted to talk about my uterus: Mainly, why it hadn’t managed to produce any children yet.
She always brought this subject up in the most condescending of ways: “You know, you’re not getting any younger! You guys should really start having children!” or, “You’ve been married for a while now—it’s time to start a family!” or, “By the time I was in my 30s, I had already had 3 children!”
On more than one occasion, I wanted to tactfully tell her to shove it. On this specific occasion, I finally did.
You see, I can remember this particular day very well because just a month before, I had suffered a miscarriage.
After more than a 1½ years of trying to get pregnant, I had miscarried at around 9 weeks. So, when she made her ever-patronizing remark about my ever-ticking biological clock, I could no longer hold my tongue.
I remember saying something like, “Well, I just miscarried after a year of trying to get pregnant, so I’d appreciate it if you could keep your opinions to yourself.”
I also clearly remember her mouth opening and closing, sort of like a guppy that was struggling to breathe.
She managed to mumble, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” before she left and went back into her house.
A year and a half later, I gave birth to my beautiful baby girl. She’s now six, and being that I’m in my 40s, the likelihood that we’ll have another child is probably around .01% or lower. For at least the past five-and-a-half years, though, we’ve been asked pretty regularly when we’re going to produce a sibling.
“Just the one?” well-meaning people ask. “You should really make her a brother or sister!”
Sure, I’ll just put in an order with the baby-making fairies for one perfect little baby, please.
The older my daughter grew, the faster the questions and comments came:
“When are you going to have another? She’s already two–you don’t want them too far apart!”
“Don’t wait too long to have another baby—they won’t have anything in common!”
“Don’t you want another one?”
“Don’t you think your daughter would like a brother or sister?”
Did we want more children? Yes, more than you’ll ever know. Yet, Mother Nature had other plans. An undiagnosed thyroid disorder that had been lingering for years, coupled with thyroid surgery and a thyroid cancer diagnosis in 2015, pretty much sealed the deal. Barring anything short of a miracle, my sweet baby girl will grow up an only child.
I can’t deny that it stings when I hear stories of friends and colleagues who’ve managed to produce 2, 3 or more kids with no trouble whatsoever, and in a perfectly orderly fashion. Unplanned pregnancy announcements rattle me the most, simply because I could probably buy a small yacht with the amount of money I’ve spent on ovulation testing kits and pregnancy tests.
No, I’m not asking folks to walk on eggshells around me or around others like me. I truly understand that those who ask when we’re having another child don’t mean any harm.
Regardless of their well-meaning intentions, people need to understand that a woman’s fertility is absolutely none of their business. Let me say that again: a woman’s fertility is no one’s business but her own.
Whether a woman is childless by choice or by some other factor, or has one child or 10, the status of her uterus is of no one’s concern. If she wants to tell you her life’s story, she will. Otherwise, leave it alone.
Thankfully, my daughter has never begged for a sibling. She asked about it one time that I can remember, and I gave her the ol’ God-broke-the-mold-when-He-made-you story. She never brought it up again. For that, I am eternally grateful. As time goes on, I’m learning to find peace in what was meant to be. I can only hope that others we encounter will do the same.
