15. What an odd number. I can’t say a year and a half. It doesn’t feel right to say “a little over a year”, because there is nothing little about it. I feel like that mom who refers to her child in months instead of years. Only I’m not the mother with that child. I’m the motherless woman.
15 months also marks the amount of time my husband and I have been married. I find it slightly amusing that the larger this number grows, the more often people ask me the “k” question.
“When are you having kids?”
At first, I hesitated answering this question. What do I say? Should I lie? But lately, I have been taking the “brutal honesty” approach. I don’t go into a lengthy discussion or explanation. There is no bitterness or tears. I just . . . well, say it!
Of course, some people do ask questions. (Others get uncomfortable. Is it wrong that I get a certain amount of enjoyment watching these people squirm? Frankly, it is no one’s business when a couple is having kids. You got what you deserved by asking that question.)
The questions don’t bother me. What do bother me are the judging and the comments. Take an interest in my life, that’s fine. But there is no need to inject your opinion on the situation. Just because your husband looked at you funny and BAM! you were pregnant, doesn’t mean you are an expert on the subject.
It all goes back to education. I wish the public was truly aware of what infertility means and how many people it effects. I didn’t choose to be infertile. Infertility chose me.