The Private Information We Share
As soon as a parent meets me and learns that I'm married, there is always this question: Do you have any kids? On its surface, it's an innocent question, and I don't begrudge it when it's asked. People ask that as a way of breaking ice, like asking what someone does for a living. It's a networking thing, too. If the answer is yes, it is one more bond we share. Maybe our kids will play sometime.
But below the surface, it is an evaluation. Married couples without children, it seems, are deserving of copious amounts of either sympathy or suspicion. Why might someone get married in these days of serial monogamy if not to have kids?
We don't have children. When the question comes up, there is a patient, expectant pause at the end of it that begs the follow-up why? I doubt a simple "No" would suffice, although I have never been able to try that as a response--the body language, the pert tone of the question, the slight tilting of the head somehow demand more than a one-word answer.
The level of detail to my answer depends on how long I've known you. If we just met, or we have a perfunctory business relationship, my answer is usually, "No, not yet. But we're hopeful." At first, only family and very close friends got the full answer why, but now that circle has broadened to include co-workers and other friends. They can hear as much as they want about the tests, results, and theories, but the short answer is that we don't know why.
My wife and I lead busy, happy, productive lives, but this issue is a wellspring of disappointment and sadness for us. While I would rather not talk about it most of the time, I often find it comforting just to share the facts with someone and hear their fertility problems and triumphs.
And there's always hope. I've heard tales of couples that surprised themselves with pregnancies long after they thought it impossible. I've heard tales about people who found ways to accept their fate. The great thing about sharing such a private part of your life is that it obligates the listener to reveal themselves similarly.
And I believe that we're well-prepared to become parents. Like I tell my wife, it's not a question of if, it's a question of how and when.
But below the surface, it is an evaluation. Married couples without children, it seems, are deserving of copious amounts of either sympathy or suspicion. Why might someone get married in these days of serial monogamy if not to have kids?
We don't have children. When the question comes up, there is a patient, expectant pause at the end of it that begs the follow-up why? I doubt a simple "No" would suffice, although I have never been able to try that as a response--the body language, the pert tone of the question, the slight tilting of the head somehow demand more than a one-word answer.
The level of detail to my answer depends on how long I've known you. If we just met, or we have a perfunctory business relationship, my answer is usually, "No, not yet. But we're hopeful." At first, only family and very close friends got the full answer why, but now that circle has broadened to include co-workers and other friends. They can hear as much as they want about the tests, results, and theories, but the short answer is that we don't know why.
My wife and I lead busy, happy, productive lives, but this issue is a wellspring of disappointment and sadness for us. While I would rather not talk about it most of the time, I often find it comforting just to share the facts with someone and hear their fertility problems and triumphs.
And there's always hope. I've heard tales of couples that surprised themselves with pregnancies long after they thought it impossible. I've heard tales about people who found ways to accept their fate. The great thing about sharing such a private part of your life is that it obligates the listener to reveal themselves similarly.
And I believe that we're well-prepared to become parents. Like I tell my wife, it's not a question of if, it's a question of how and when.
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