Stop asking when I’m having (more) kids.

I’m currently sitting at a coffee shop, nursing awful period cramps and a peppermint cold brew, on the heels of an ultrasound.

Not for a baby.

For infertility.

And if one more person at my church says, “When’s the next one coming?!” I’m moving to Canada.

It’s going to happen. I should get my passport renewed. Add to to-do list.

Yes, I have two kids. Yes, I’m very, very thankful for them. Yes, secondary infertility still hurts like hell.

Do not assume anything about anyone’s fertility.

(One more time for the 75 year old women in the back pew:)

DO NOT ASSUME ANYTHING ABOUT ANYONE’s FERTILITY.

This isn’t my first rodeo with fertility assumptions.

In our fourth year of seminary, my husband and I attended a casual event (the only type of seminary event my husband could drag me to) when another seminary wife approached me in that unavoidable way only the truly obnoxious are skilled at. She whispered as if we were in each other’s confidence:

“You know, I went through infertility, too. I’m here if you need me.”

What, what the what?!

For context, I was on birth control.

At that time in life, we didn’t want kids. We couldn’t afford them and I knew that I really wanted to stay home with any kids we would have for a while. We were actively choosing to avoid pregnancy until after seminary finished. But here was a woman around my age, in a similar life position, making rather shocking assumptions about my fertility. I wish I could say I had a snappy answer, but I have to admit that I was too shocked to reply. I might have even thanked her. Oops.

There’s something about being a Christian, and especially one married to a pastor, that makes everyone assume that we all want 12 kids and to homeschool them all while making sourdough in a gingham dress.

I personally love my yoga pants and jean jackets.

I do also make sourdough occasionally, but that’s because I love fresh, warm bread more than most earthly things. Moving on.

There’s something about vicarage that makes everyone get baby fever and come home with their newborns and fertile uteruses ready for another.

Yes, many people in a variety of church traditions do not condone the use of birth control. After my second baby, I actually opted out of it as well due to migraines it contributed to. That’s not the topic here.

The topic is fertility, and I think we’ve lost the significance of what “fertility” means as a culture. Let me make it more crude (and more honest): fertility is the outcome of someone’s unprotected sex with their partner.

Whenever a churchgoer asks me when the “next one” is coming, I'm honestly shocked. Do they realize what they’re actually asking?

Are they really asking whether we’re having protected sex?! I don’t even know their name!

No good can come of asking about it. Here are all the possible replies I can currently think up:

1. “I’m pregnant and not ready to tell you.”

2. “I just miscarried and am grieving.”

3. “Yes, your pastor and I are in fact having frequent, enjoyable, and unprotected sex.” *I really want to use this one just to see a reaction.

4. “I’m having fertility problems.”

5. “No, we don’t want more kids. Any sex we’re having is selectively timed and/or protected and really just for fun!”

NONE of those are what the nosy parishioner wants to hear. I’m not sure what they’re expecting, but there’s no good way to answer honestly.

Church isn’t the only place I get this question. It’s somehow become a box-standard question, especially for young married couples and couples with young kids. At the library. In the grocery store. At the Thanksgiving get-together. Even with friends.

It’s the quickest way I know of to take a good social interaction and immediately make it awkward or reduce the other person to tears.

There are very few people on this earth that I want asking about my fertility plans, and I’ve already shared what I’m going through with them before those individuals need to ask.

Do not assume anything about anyone’s fertility.

Think about the couples who just don’t want kids, now or ever. They exist. Even in pastors’ couples.

Think about the grieving couples.

Think about the infertile couples.

Think about the couples in the midst of a high-risk pregnancy.

Think about the couples experiencing financial insecurity who need to save up first.

It’s an extremely personal topic, and we’ve somehow forgotten that.

So, back to the ultrasound.

I had to go a birthing center and wait my turn for an ultrasound, watching laboring women come in and happy couples cooing over their baby ultrasounds.

And the tech who took me back was confused as to why I was crying.

Honestly, having infertility ultrasounds take place at a birthing center should be a criminal offense.

I can remember my daughters’ births (both the traumatic one and the smooth one).

I can remember holding the 20-week anatomy scan ultrasounds in my hand and daydreaming about names.

I remember the ultrasounds to see the heartbeat.

I remember the kicks.

Today, I looked at an empty uterus on the screen while I bled on the table. The ultrasound tech chatted about her weekend plans instead of my baby. She took pictures of gray blobs and refused to tell me what she saw. I walked out with no pictures. I won’t get any hint of results for another month when I next see my provider.

And I’m strange for crying.

Do not assume anything about anyone’s fertility.

And if you ask, be prepared for an honest answer or a hard slap.

To the parishioner, just don’t ask.

To the pastor’s wife with 6 kids going for a round dozen, thank God for your kids and don’t ask about mine.

To the seminary wife coming home from vicarage with a new baby, don’t ask.

To anyone anywhere, just don’t ask.

Just don’t ask.

Love,

The Pastor’s Wife