A Letter

I don’t, honestly, think you were out to offend me. And the truth is, you didn’t much. But I also think there’s an important educational moment for you here. That’s why we’re talking about this weeks after the fact.

The first time I remember hearing anyone utter the phrase “don’t have kids” was in, of all things, an episode of “Scrubs.” It’s used as a slightly-subtler way of saying, “wow, you are colossally stupid.” Every other time I remember hearing that phrase—or anything close—it’s been in the same vein: a “comedic” slap in the face. A way to call someone unworthy of the very human desire to procreate. A way of calling someone a waste of space.

Now, I’ve never before had such words directed at me. I’m a reasonably competent human. If someone has said before now that I shouldn’t continue my genetic line, they at least had the decency to do it behind my back.

That’s not to say that I haven’t heard rude comments about my children. With three kids in four years, it happens. The “bless your heart”s (the ones dripping with sarcasm; I don’t mind the sincere ones at all. I could use the blessings,) the “wow, you have your hands full,” even the “are they all yours?” These bother me in varying degrees, largely depending on how competent of a mother I feel I’m being that day.

But “don’t have kids”? That was new to me.

I think it might have troubled me less if you’d seen me lose my temper at one of my children (although it’s also possible that it would bother me more. I can’t say for sure.) If there was a viable reason you told me directly, to my face, that I should in no uncertain terms have no more children after this fourth baby is born.

Or maybe if I’d complained. If I’d groaned and grumbled about this being my fourth kid, I could understand your reaction. And don’t misunderstand—this pregnancy has been very, very hard, and I’ve groaned and grumbled plenty. But to you, a stranger, I gave a half smile and said “four!” with moderate enthusiasm when you asked which pregnancy it was.

You, I’d never met before. You had no idea of the struggles and dangers and fears of this pregnancy.

And that, I think, is the real reason I’m so bothered, even after the fact.

You didn’t know that a month before, I was in the hospital in genuine fear that my sweet boy would not survive.

You didn’t know the amount of thought and prayer and planning that went into conceiving this child.

And if I’d struggled with infertility, if this had been an IVF or otherwise-hard-to-come-by baby, you wouldn’t have known.

If this were a “rainbow baby,” one that comes after infant loss, you wouldn’t have known.

What if this child had been a product of a rape? You wouldn’t have known.

What if my baby had been one of a set of twins, and the only survivor?

What if I were serving as a surrogate for a loved one who couldn’t have kids?

What if he were my first healthy baby after three unwell or even terminal ones?

What if I’d lost Husband, and this kid was the last piece of him I had?

What if... what if?

These are all very real scenarios for very real people. Pregnancy comes with a slough of rational AND irrational emotions. And while I can sort of excuse the cantankerous old lady on aisle nine, the fact that you work at my midwife’s office really, REALLY throws me.

So here’s a script for dealing with every pregnant woman you ever meet. (Which, at your job, is presumably a lot):

“Hi! My goodness, you look beautiful. I hope everything is going well!”

The end.

Don’t comment on her number of kids.

Don’t comment on race.

Don’t comment on her choice of partner/support person.

Don’t comment on it if she looks like a train wreck.

Don’t tell her that she’s got her “hands full” (trust me; I promise she knows.)

Don’t pretend to have a grasp on her exact experience, even if you have a kid. Even if you have a THOUSAND kids. I don’t care. This is a unique journey.

And don’t ever, ever, EVER tell another human being not to have [more] kids. Just don’t.