“And when are you having children?” inquired the nurse who was taking blood for my yearly exam. Not willing to risk upsetting someone who was poking a needle into my arm, I responded, with a forced smile, “Only God knows.” I wasn’t thrilled with yet another reminder that my biological clock is ticking its supposed last tock yet, shortly after, the absurd happened: a distant relative gifted me with DIY knit baby clothes to, in her words, “encourage me.” I went home with the baby clothes and cried.
At thirty one, I’ve been bombarded with inappropriate questions, infertility horror stories, and encouragement to from well-meaning family and friends to freeze my eggs before Mother Nature f*cks me over. Instead, I’m being f*ck by the anxiety to fulfill their wishes over not just a life-changing event but THE life-changing event.
I also think about my family and colleagues that have shared their experience with miscarriages and stillbirths. How do they feel when they are asked by “well-meaning” strangers?
As the holidays approach, I don’t expect others to butt-out of my uterus, so you may find me responding,
“Not in this economy.”
“Only God knows.”
“Not within the next nine months.”