Welcome to My Womb: I said “I do,” and now my body is everyone’s business.

Within a few months of my wedding, my husband-to-be and I began talking about starting a family. We agreed that we wouldn’t officially “try” until after we’d been married for one year. I looked forward to enjoying that first year of marriage as a couple — just us two — to adjust to our new living situation (we moved in together just two months before our wedding) and establish this new phase of our relationship.
Prior to getting married, our chats about starting a family and raising kids had been limited to isolated moments here and there, like, while watching kids at the park play, or sharing times with our friends who had kids, and intermittent pillow-talk moments when we’d share our future plans of what it might be like to have our own children.
Once we actually got married, the conversation shifted — in a big way! It was as if saying “I do” opened the flood gates to outside commentary, beyond our intimate talks as a couple. I had no idea what I was in for — literally dozens of people became a voiced opinion in our process of deciding if, when, and how we should start a family.
I am certain that over the course of my life, for the previous 38 years, I have managed to make fairly reasonable choices and life decisions for myself, and found myself suddenly confounded at the constant “weighing in” on the matter by everyone in our circle of family and friends.
I was pelted by choruses of doubt, lukewarm uncertainty, and flat-out discouragement mixed together with a few advance-congratulatory outbursts, coming at me from all sides:
“You’re kind of old. Do you think you’ll be able to have a baby?”
“Are you going to need in vitro fertilization? I know a great doctor if you want their number!”
“What about your job? Will you still work?” “You guys are pretty set in your ways. Is this really the best thing for you both?”
“Are you going to do pre-natal testing? That can be dangerous for the child!”
And, conversely:
“Are you going to do pre-natal testing? You’re risk of you having a sick child is pretty high.”
“What will you do if the pre-natal testing results are not good? What will you do then?
“Would you give up on the pregnancy, if say, it was just missing an arm or a leg? Have you thought about that?!”
And then, one blast of encouragement:
“Finally! A child is a blessing on the family!” (This one came from my mother-in-law.)
I was already pretty anxious about the thought of getting pregnant — now approaching the age of 39 years old, and never having had a child. Though in my early teens I had a pretty good babysitting business on my block, helping out some of my new-mom neighbors. I knew my way around a diaper pretty well.
But frankly, the barrage of commentary from the peanut-gallery made me sick to my stomach.
It was as if somehow, when I got married, my vows included an unspoken invitation for everyone we knew to invade my most personal space.
“Welcome to my Vagina! Hey everybody, come on in! Let’s go, hurry up. My clock is ticking! Share your thoughts, fears, needs, demands, concerns and opinions on what I should do with my vagina! Welcome aboard, one and all!”
Ugh!
And in my own foolishness, or naiveté, or perhaps in my own ever-so-polite and diplomatic way about me, I didn’t want to risk insult by simply shutting it down (I am a recovering people-pleaser.) I allowed it to go, and on.
I sat through countless conversations that centered on parenthood, and whether or not my eggs and my body would be healthy enough or strong enough to go through with it.
I listened to all that b.s. — full tilt. And a lot of what I heard scared the crap out of me. To be honest, I never did see myself having children. For sure, I knew that I wasn’t going to want to have kids alone as a single parent, and having found love a bit later in life, the thought of actually doing it was still a bit new to me.
And even though I wasn’t exactly totally confident with the plans that my husband and I made together, (I was a bit nervous, first time actually getting ready to make a baby!), the noise from the crowd seemed to drown out my own voice. I often found myself defending my plans for becoming pregnant, how I would do it, how I would prepare, what medical interventions I might seek, should the need arise, etc.
Frankly, I had no plan. I felt, if it was to be, then it would be. Plain and simple.
After the wedding, my husband and I were getting to know our way around cohabitating, sharing living space, negotiating house chores, finances, and the like. As far as the have-a-kid-conversation, I wasn’t a bit interested, or ready to address it. I wanted one year of peace, so to speak.
Now that I was married, it seemed to open the door to our family-community to weigh-in. They all dove into my vagina, full stop with comments and unsolicited advice a-blazing. They lobbed them at me, and I did my best to return serve (tennis analogy — I like tennis.)
Yet somehow, I hadn’t even considered the reality that perhaps it wasn’t anybody’s fucking business but my own. I should have told them so!
Even my own mother weighed in — and perhaps not in the way you think. She wasn’t aching to become a Grandma. My mom never pressured me into having a child. In fact, her comments were less than positive on the topic.
My mom often told me that she was afraid for me to have a baby by husband because my husband was so tall (6’3”), and I’m so petite at barely 5’3”. I can’t even begin to count how many times she’d ask, “How can you have a baby with him? He’s so big? And you’re so petite! How will they get it out of you?! The child will be so big! How will you even carry it?”
Sometimes, when my mom would say those things, I’d think to myself, “Oh, no!! How can I have a baby?! It will be too big! How will they get it out of me?!”
I would burst out crying. Tears would flow down my face, and I’d start to completely freak out with fear. Seeing this, my mom would then say, “I’m only joking. Can’t you even tell when I only joking?”
I didn’t find the humor in it at all.
Exactly one year after I was married, I started trying to get pregnant.
Exactly four weeks later, I was pregnant. Naturally.
And nine months later, I did not deliver a huge six-foot baby. I gave birth to a perfect, healthy, bouncing baby boy — a beautiful child, born with short-stature dwarfism. Small. Strong. And smart.
He’s the love of my life — but it certainly wasn’t anyone’s business how or when he’d get here.
