When we told my parents we were expecting #3, (incidentally, on the same day we found out. Darn my mother and her birthday drinking!) my mom got a little misty-eyed and hugged us, while my dad hesitated.
He looked at us steadily for a few seconds, one eyebrow raised.
And then, the question–
“Was this one planned?”
Ah, the eternal question, the one that will follow me around, it seems, with every subsequent pregnancy.
A nurse at the hospital had the same response when I told some co-workers that I was pregnant. Her jaw dropped and she stared at me in shock.
“Was this planned?” she blurted out.
To her, a total stranger, a person I had just met a few hours ago, I bristled.
“How can you ask that?” I returned.
She showed no shame. “Well, I know you already have two little ones already…I don’t know why anyone would do that…”
Call me crazy, but I just find the whole thing a little rude. Maybe it’s because I associate the thought of an unplanned pregnancy with my first– being a college senior, crying alone in a heap on the kitchen floor, the feeling that I had ruined everything. There is just no way, at this point in my life, married, a homeowner, in a steady career, that I can go back to that feeling of failure. At ths point, pregnancy is not a failure, but just another addition.
I don’t know, maybe I’m taking it the wrong way, but I resent the negative connotation when people ask me if this baby was planned.
At this point, I just have one question for them–
What does it matter?