plea...se

Please stop asking me if I'm expecting.

In the last 24 hours, I was asked by two different people who I know whether I am expecting another.  Another what, you ask?  A baby.  Yes, a baby.

In the first case, we ran into someone while eating lunch, and the woman flat-out asked me, "Are you expecting another?"  At first, I thought she meant if the open seat at our table was going to be occupied.  In fact, I almost pulled out the chair for her, until I saw the look on my husband's face -- somewhere between disappointment and hurt for me -- and my heart sank.  Oh.  She meant that.

The second occurrence happened at work.  It came with a gesture towards my belly, and having just experienced the mortification of answering the same question the day before, I recovered and moved on quickly.  "Oh, no, it must be the shape of my dress," I replied, and I even flicked my dress for good measure.  The weather has warmed up enough for flowy dresses, and I guess that's an immediate indication of pregnancy.  But inside I was thinking, "Really?? Who asks that?"

A lot of people, that's who.  Sadly, I have been asked this question at work and elsewhere before, and even by this same person a mere week after I had miscarried in the fall.  I had thought that my way-too-detailed response in the past would have swayed them from asking again, but apparently not.  Is it open season on any woman of child-bearing age for the slew of inappropriate questions?

I would never ask somebody this.  Do you know why?  Because a woman's reproductive status is deeply personal.  Because I know many women, like me, who have struggled and fought to get pregnant for YEARS, who wish it were as easy as knowing it were up to them and they could believe a baby into existence.  Because when you ask this question, it's hurtful to anyone who has been poked and prodded and tested and scanned and has been waiting and waiting and waiting... and still waiting for that glimmer of hope or a break in the endless cycle of their bodies failing them.  Because even though I am open to talking about all these things, it still stings.

So please stop asking me if I'm expecting, or if/when I'm having another.

If I were to answer this question honestly, of course I would love another.  When Anthony and I first got married, we'd joke about having six kids or compromise at four, as if it were up to us.  Little did we know the infertility journey we were about to take.  Little did we know it would take us three years to conceive through IVF, that we'd lose our twins halfway into my pregnancy, that we'd experience a failed cycle two years later.  Little did we know it would take a third cycle to bring us our miracle baby, and not without pregnancy complications, or that we'd keep the happy news a secret until I was nearly six months along before telling our own families, out of fear for us and protection for them.  Little did we know that three years later, when I finally got up the courage, we'd go for that final precious frozen embryo, and that I'd get pregnant, but then I'd ultimately miscarry.  So the short answer?  I would love to have another baby.  But we don't always get what we want, do we?

Sometimes I wish I wouldn't shrug it off as ignorance.  Sometimes I wish I could give the long answer.  Sometimes I wish that I had the will and the tolerance to explain how hurtful this question is, but today I make my plea: Please. stop. asking. me. if. I'm. expecting.

Instead, ask me about my beautiful, incredible rainbow baby.  Ask me about how she understands, even at this young age, that she has siblings who are with her always but not physically here, and how she goes out of her way to include them in her every day.  Ask me about how she's given me the gift of motherhood and taught me to love far beyond myself.

Maybe she'll be our one and only (living) baby.  And maybe someday I'll be at peace with that.  And maybe, just maybe, I will share that with you in my own time.