In Case You Were Wondering

One of the many ways in which I wish I was like Mary Poppins is her take on explaining herself: "Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I never explain anything."

But, I frequently spend a great deal of time, energy and effort explaining myself, because it's important to me that people understand me. If they understand me, we'll live a harmonious existence, and everyone will be happier, right?

Yes, I actually do hang on to that hope. No comments about futility, please.

Anyway...

Apparently, there are people wondering if I've changed my mind about certain things, because, the theory goes, they didn't "really" affect me before.

You see, I belong - by choice, I feel impressed to add - to a religion that teaches that marriage is intended to be between a man and a woman, and my daughter married a woman.

For instance, someone recently said to me, "Have you come to terms with your daughter yet?" I have no idea what that inquiry means.

Do they mean, am I aware that my daughter does not follow the religion in which we raised her? Of course. When her age was still in single digits, she started arguing with us about church teachings because "nobody else does things that way." Once, when she insisted that "nobody else has household rules like that" (the subject was chores, something she detested) and I immediately rattled off the names of half a dozen families, she wailed, "Why are you talking about people at church?" I responded, "Why aren't you? When you use words like 'nobody' or 'everybody,' you'd better not know of any exceptions. Those words mean 'not even one person, worldwide.'" As a teen, she started saying things like, "Mormons do it all wrong." She stopped attending church at 18, and has never been quiet about her disagreements with doctrine or practices.

Do they mean, have I processed the fact that my daughter's in a relationship with a woman? Years ago. The first time I met my now daughter-in-law, she and my daughter were wearing matching rings. Even in the early years of the relationship, which dates back to when my now-28 year old was in college, my daughter's photos on my computer (her open Shutterfly account) contained an image of them kissing. Even early in the relationship, there were Internet searches of wedding venues. We didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes.

Do they mean, how do I treat my daughter's wife? The same way I always have, the same way I treat any person. From the time we met, we included her in family outings and family meals. Before we even met her, we bought travel souvenirs for her when we were on vacation. At Christmas, when we bought glasses with his favorite NFL team logo for my son-in-law, we bought her glasses with her favorite NFL team logo. We've included her name and photo in our Christmas card.

Do they mean, am I prepared for public scrutiny or questions? Always. How will people know anything if they don't ask? Plus, I'm generally a TMI person, not a privacy obsessed one. Virtually everything on my social media, for instance, is set on "public," so everyone knows what I'm saying about anyone and anything. I have never, ever asked my daughter or her wife to hide, to lie, to make themselves scarce, to not bring up their relationship around certain people. If people are obnoxious, well, that's a good sign that I need to keep those people, not my daughter, at arm's length.

Do they mean, am I aware that my daughter has unfavorable things to say about my religion? See above; yes, since her childhood.

Do they mean, am I prepared for this to be my reality? Of course. Anyone who believes that other people and their actions are, or should be, under the control of anyone but themselves is delusional or power hungry.

Do they mean, have I changed my mind and left, or doubted, my religion? That mindset - and yes, I have come across it - has always been so annoying. Do people usually change their minds, especially their deeply held beliefs, because someone else doesn't agree? Should they? I'm not easily swayed. Besides, it's outright offensive when someone says to me, "How can you belong to your religion, knowing that its beliefs cause your daughter pain?" but they are aghast and horrified if the question is reversed - "How can my daughter hold her beliefs, knowing that they cause her parents pain?" Take any answer you would give to one of us about free will and determining our own destiny, and apply it to the opposite question, as well, because the answers are the same.

Do they mean, do I agree with my religion? Yes, I do. Any official doctrine of my church is something that I embrace. Sometimes that has come quickly and easily (sometimes, before I even attended my church), and sometimes it's taken years of study and prayer. It's also offensive to me when someone sees me treat someone, anyone, outside of my religion with love and friendship, and then says, "So, you obviously don't believe (insert doctrine here) that the Mormons teach." (Yes, this has actually happened to me.) They are almost universally puzzled when I say, "Yes, I do. That's why my treatment of people doesn't depend on me agreeing with them. That's what my church teaches, that we are all children of God." I have no idea why people equate "children of God, who should be loved and cared for" with "agrees with and acts like me." I assure you, that is not what LDS members are taught.

As a subset of that, do they mean, do I think that this is the life that my daughter was destined to live? No, I do not. I do not believe in the "soul mates" concept that there is only one perfect partner for you. Anyone who's had a spouse die, or gone through a breakup thinking, "I will never love anyone that way again" knows that you will meet someone that you can love again (and that love is every bit as "real" as the love that you previously had). I think it is also possible to be deeply, truly in love, and have the relationship be one that should not be pursued. We know that, even if we don't enjoy the actions, or they don't come easily, we still need to practice good nutrition, exercise, hold a job (at home or somewhere else), be polite, be helpful, treat everyone fairly, clean our homes, do our laundry, refrain from violence, and a host of other behaviors. So, it makes no sense to me to say, "Unless you act on your sexual feelings, you're not being true to yourself, and you're doomed to failure." I don't think that "normal" necessarily equates to "desirable." I think that the fact that it biologically takes a man and a woman to perpetuate the species indicates that the ideal environment for raising them will contain a father and a mother.

A friend works for the local crisis hotline, and once went to her social media to ask, "What should I say to callers like this?" A caller said he was afraid to tell his parents that he was gay, because they thought homosexuality was wrong. My response was: I would say, "You think your parents are wrong. You think their views are hateful, divisive, inaccurate and hurtful. Yet, YOU LOVE THEM, and you WANT THEM IN YOUR LIFE, ALWAYS. That's undoubtedly EXACTLY how they feel about YOU."

So, I'm sitting there, having been asked if I've "come to terms," and having no earthly idea what that actually means. So I went with the only fact that matters, and said, "I love my daughter."

"I know that's what you say, but what about the Sharon in private?" Um - what? Did you just actually imply to my face that I do not love my daughter, AND that I'm two faced?

"She's the same person," I said. Remember the old computer term, WYSIWYG, which meant What You See Is What You Get? That's me. I do not have the energy to be different things to different people, and to try to remember how I'm "supposed" to act around them. My kids (and this daughter in particular) used to hate it when they'd tell some story that they were sure would embarrass me (on the theory that I'd bribe them to get them to shut up), only to discover that people already knew the story. Or, if they didn't, I was likely to say, "That's not the worst part!" and share more. I don't believe in tying myself in knots trying to make sure that others don't hear unflattering tales.

"I said Sharon."

"I know. And I'm telling you, the public and private Sharon look the same."

"Oh, I know you say that. But I know you."

Obviously not too well! This is someone who spent almost two decades in a relationship that they would not acknowledge in public, and they know very personal and often embarrassing things about me, and I'm the one accused of hiding? Seriously? I've told scores of people things that were none of their business, just because I overshare.

"You keep things inside." Do I make every effort to be civil, even when I'm angry, to be courteous, even when I don't like people, and make every effort to refrain from gossip? Yes; that's not being deceitful, that's being mature.

So, here I am, typing, trying to explain myself again, with no idea if that's possible, or even a good idea.

Let's try this. Here's a photo from my daughter's wedding:

That's my husband, me, our 4 kids, and my new daughter-in-law.

Here's one of all of the wedding guests:

Almost all of those people are members of my family. (The number inches closer to 100% if you count Mickey, and many of us would.) Since going on a cruise is expensive, the couple knew that the numbers would be small, but for a small ceremony, that's a lot of people. Now think about the fact that some people are there because they think my daughter is doing the right thing, and some are there just because they love my daughter.

The couple had a beautiful day that made them happy, and they shared it with loved ones.

Here's one from my oldest daughter's wedding:

That building we're in front of is the Salt Lake Temple. The woman in the wheelchair is my mom. She is not LDS, and she did not think that it was important to be married in an LDS temple. She is there, far from her home and in no small amount of physical discomfort, knowing that she cannot set foot inside the building, and that she will not see the wedding ceremony. She is there, in a borrowed wheelchair, because she loves my daughter.

The couple had a beautiful day that made them happy, and they shared it with loved ones.

This was taken at my grandniece's naming ceremony, at the synagogue my niece attends.

Only 3 people in this photo are Jewish, the parents and the new infant. The rest of them traveled a great distance, and are at the synagogue not to worship, but because they love my niece. (And, just as an aside, my niece is also in a same sex relationship.)

The couple had a beautiful day that made them happy, and they shared it with loved ones.

In sharing this I by no means am saying, "We are so amazing!" In fact, quite the contrary. My family and I are extremely ordinary. There are no rich, famous, or powerful people. We are flawed. We can be petty, bad tempered, forgetful, lazy, annoying, hurtful. We have money issue and health issues. We squabble and bicker. There are no Superhumans here.

Other people are doing the family thing better than I am. You're a good parent and your house is clean? Hats off to you. You work full time and coach your kid's team? I get exhausted just thinking about it.

We are so, so ordinary. Ordinary is good enough.

Any time someone wants to pat my daughter on the back for being willing to love such clueless parents, or to pat us on the back for loving such a difficult child, they need to stop. The idea that the main purpose of human interaction is achieving agreement is prejudicial and oppressive. I am amazed that so many people subscribe to it. It amazes and puzzles me any time someone feels that in order to truly love someone, or in order to even get along with civility, you have to agree, at least on the big stuff - religion, politics, etc.

Things that others said to my daughter undoubtedly contributed to the ridiculously long time it took for her to have The Conversation with us. Every time the subject of same sex relationships came up, we assured her that the horror stories you hear about people behaving badly in the face of such differences are a small fraction of the population. Most people handle them quite well, but those aren't the stories you hear repeated over and over again. Nobody calls up their friends and says, "Did you hear about Sally's parents? They behaved perfectly reasonably." Nobody re-shares "... and life went on as usual" stories on their social media. But many people perpetuate the idea that people will only treat you well if they agree with you. The positive stories that do get reblogged are the ones that say, "... and because we all agreed that Jimmy was right, everything was fine."

People say things like, "Religious parents are going to be the ones who behave badly," and, "Mormon parents are going to be a problem." Sometimes they say things like, "They'll come around eventually," indicating again the idea that everyone will need to agree for things to be fine, and that eventually, of course, everyone will agree. When I've asked people why this is, I get answers like, "Well, you hear all these stories..." or, "I had Mormon neighbors once, and they..." When someone says something like, "I had a Mormon uncle, and he...," I want to point out that I don't consider, for instance, my devout Catholic niece to be the final word in Catholic doctrine, or the poster child for her religion, or indicative of how all Catholics will (or should) behave. When I say things like, "I know a lot of Mormons who behave differently than that," I'm told that it's irrelevant, but those same people will insist that the people that they know or have heard about are hard evidence. Or, someone wants to get into a game of numbers - "I have more examples than you do!" (This is often despite the fact that they have never met as many LDS members as someone who regularly attends LDS meetings has.)

We never cautioned our younger children against spending time with, or listening to, their sister, either. We didn't view her as contagious in any way.

Someone once told me that the mere fact of my church membership indicated bigotry. Aside from the fact that that belief is the dictionary definition of prejudice, I was letting my children sit on the lap of my gay best friend with AIDS before my accuser was even born. I was still hugging him when the disease was advanced, and that was in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when people still said things like, "We don't know if the virus can spread through casual contact." Do not try to talk to me about bigotry if you have no idea what my life looks like, or if you think that a single piece of information is all that you need to know! (I get almost as upset at people who say, "Well, you can't blame her for thinking that. Most Mormons..." Again, that's prejudice, and again, you don't know most Mormons, even in your own community, much less worldwide.)

People told my son stuff like this, too, when he decided to leave our church, and not serve a mission. "Oh, your parents are going to just freak out!" It's almost understandable coming from people who've never met us, but even then it's annoying. Plus, we aren't the freak out type. Neither my parents-in-law nor my parents freaked out when we joined the church, either; the odds that we'd lose our minds over a child leaving were very small. (Plus, we'd already had one child leave the church; surely that's a pretty good indicator of how we'd act.)

"It's different when it's your own child," people said, dismissing the way we'd treated anyone else, gay or otherwise. You know how it's different? The parent/child relationship is permanent. Marriages are dissolved, friendships fade, but children are always yours. My child could never speak to me again, and I'd still be her mother. I could die tomorrow, my husband could re-marry, and I'd still be her mother. The parent/child relationship is the only biological relationship that you choose. You can't choose any of your other biological relatives, but any woman who has given birth has chosen, daily, for months on end, to bring a child into the world. That's how it's different.

(As an aside, I can speak to the mindset of giving birth, because it's what I did, but adoptive parents spend more time preparing, and they have to go find their children. They are equally determined; perhaps more so.)

So, for better or worse, I'm putting us out there, pointing at my family and saying, "People can disagree on fundamental things, and still love and support each other." "Support" does not mean "agree with."

In case you were wondering.

Now, when people say, "Well, I know this one Mormon family..." you can say, "I do, too." Plus, if we aren't impressive enough, I can point you in the direction of some really impressive people.

Thank You For Your Support

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." - Inigo Montoya

OK, part of it is the problem of the English language itself, with its ridiculous rules and exceptions to rules. I'll grant you that.

Still. Let's talk about support. The actual word - "support."

We so often use it to mean "agree with." People will insist that "the way to support" someone is to tell them that you think that they're correct, or that they should be doing whatever they're doing. They will tell you that to "support" your family or friends, you need, in essence, to say to them, "You are right. You are absolutely right."

It makes me crazy.

Most of the times that I felt most supported by my parents were the times when we disagreed.

Look on dictionary.com. They supply 19 definitions for "support," and not one contains the words "agree" or "agreement." Number 3, though, says, "to undergo or endure, especially with patience or submission; tolerate." My parents did a lot of that.

I've shared before the fact that I started attending a church at age seven. I went with the neighbors. My parents did not belong to any religion. Both of them, especially my dad, distrusted organized religions as a whole. Plus, this was one outside the mainstream, deemed kind of loopy. Still, when I announced at age eight that I intended to attend every week, that I wanted to be baptized a member, my parents eventually gave permission.

Were they thrilled? No. Not even close. Did they try to talk me out of it? Sure. I rarely share those details, since I consider them irrelevant to the outcome, but it wasn't all sunshine and roses. My family had reservations. My mom worried that being religious would equate to being judgmental. My dad said things like, "They talk about the importance of the family, but I think that this could tear the family apart." When I wanted to attend Sunday services as well as weekday activities, they worried that two meetings a week was too much. My dad also stressed out because Sunday had traditionally been our "pack a picnic and head into the hills" days, and we'd frequently be gone all day long. He was unamused when I countered this worry by asking, "Couldn't we do that on Saturdays?" To me, his answer of, "But we've always done it on Sunday" sounded like a non sequitur. I got to hear everyone's stories about how they "knew this one Mormon man/woman" and how they did something wrong or hurtful or stupid. My dad's family had some long standing beef with the church that went back to his childhood.

How did they handle all this? They let me join, without undue complaining. I could attend meetings weekly, but I had to wait until I was 12 to be baptized; that was OK with me. By that time, they were pretty comfortable that things would go on as usual at home; nobody had grand worries any more. By the time I was a teen, and my mom had to drive me to and from meetings and activities, it was just a normal part of our lives. They attended activities with me when invited. When my teacher suggested a 40 day sugar fast so that we could better understand Jesus' 40 day fast, my mother obsessively read labels and bought special groceries. When I had early morning religion classes in high school, my mother got up with me to make sure I had breakfast. They didn't worry about sending me on youth group trips or sleepovers, even co-ed ones.

Did they still think that my church was odd, my choices were odd, and sometimes hope that I'd decide that I didn't want to attend any more? Sure. Did they say nasty, snarky, passive-aggressive things? Never. Did they gripe to everyone else, outside of my earshot? No. They told people how nice members of my congregation were.

On the other hand, did I secretly throw out their coffee and wine, sigh and look mournful when they drank those things, when they swore, when they stayed home while I went to church? Never. Did I, or anyone else, pressure them to join, remark on how sad it was that I attended alone, tell them that their salvation was at stake? Nope. Not even once. It's called "being mature."

That's certainly not the only time we seriously disagreed. My dad was deeply upset that I had no interest in being an athlete. They were both deeply disappointed when I decided not to go to college after high school. They didn't always like my friends, and were not happy when I chose one of those friends as my roommate when I moved out. (Truth be told, they weren't happy about me moving out, period, and they disliked the girl in question.) (Also, they turned out to be right that living with her was a bad idea.) When I started dating my husband, my mother told me that she never wanted to meet my new boyfriend, and my dad referred to him as "that wild. bearded thing." They were not happy when I got married at 20, when I had a baby that year and another at 21, when we moved hundreds of miles away, when we bought a home in our new town, when I chose to be a stay at home mom... I mean, there are literally dozens of instances in which they would have made very different choices for me if they could.

(Despite the fact that they thought that I was too young, and the fact that my mother hated playing hostess, we held our wedding in my parents' back yard. I felt very supported.)

It should be noted that my extended family and my friends were often equally horrified, or even more distressed than my parents, by any or all of these events. Quite often the collective opinion was that I'd lost my mind, or that I had tragically low self esteem, or that I didn't know that I had alternatives. Also, my inlaws were not fond of me in the slightest. When we were engaged, if I walked into a room, my mother in law walked out.

The fact that my family soon learned to adore my husband (and kids), and that the years bore out the fact that I had not, in fact, ruined my life, is an aside here, instead of the point. The point is that my loved ones continued to love me and continued to treat me and my family the same way they would have if I had done things differently. This does not mean that everyone lived in a state of denial or that nobody voiced concerns, complaints or (my least favorite) advice. It means that the fact that we disagreed was totally secondary to the fact that we loved each other.

That, folks, is what "support" looks like.

I cannot stand it when I read some account or other of someone doing something that could be controversial - leaving medical school to become a jazz musician, or coming out as gay - their loved ones think that they're doing the right thing, and say, "I agree with you 100%! Live your truth! Follow your path! God wants you to do this!" and other people respond, "Now that's the way to support someone!" and "Anyone who tells you that you're wrong is not supporting you!" Listen up, everybody. That's not support. It's agreement. It's expected. It is the very definition, the epitome, of expected. Can you think of any instance in which someone will agree with you, will think that you're doing the right thing, and will say something derogatory or rude? Will they question you and offer alternatives if they think that you're already taking the best course of action? Good gravy, folks, it is the closest thing to a guarantee that if someone agrees with you, they'll say something positive. I repeat, that is agreement, not support.

Displaying expected behavior is not amazing or worthy of praise. It's a given, like the sun rising.

Actual support should be expected behavior, but alas, it is not.

A friend posted a question on their Facebook page about whether or not it was possible to civil and supportive if your family members disagreed on religion. This was my response.

"When I joined my church at almost age 13, my parents and siblings were supportive (if baffled). I do not belong to the same religion as my parents, siblings, parents-in-law, siblings-in-law, or any of my 11 nieces and nephews (or my grandnieces and -nephews, either). (I also do not belong to the same political party as my husband.)

Having grown up in an environment where I was taught that all people have intrinsic value, unrelated to their beliefs or actions, and in which I was both encouraged to be respectful to everyone and to think for myself, I will never be able to understand people who think that everyone has to agree, or they can't truly be close, or love each other. I don't understand people who see differences of opinion as betrayal and rejection.

We recently returned from a naming ceremony for my grandniece, daughter of lesbian, Jewish parents. Someone actually said to my husband, "You would go when you don't agree with them?" Of course! They flew here and celebrated with us, with genuine happiness, when our daughter was married in an LDS temple. They don't agree with us or our religious practices, but it made no difference. That's just what reasonable people do for each other.

Most of my friends are pretty great about differences, too. When I invited a (very non-religious) family to my son's baptism, they didn't say, "We don't believe in that, and we think you're a little weird. It would make us too uncomfortable." They said, "What time do we need to be there, and what is the dress code?" When they invited us to their son's gay pagan handfasting (wedding) ceremony, we said about the same - "When should we get there, and what's the dress code?"

I know people who say they'd love people, regardless, but they'd be very upset if, say, their daughter announced a desire to be a nun. Unless someone is sacrificing children or planning other acts of violence, allowing them to freely practice their beliefs, or unbelief, benefits everyone."

I mean, how is this even a question? How are we not all clear on this?

When you look at my close friends, my lifelong friends, my relatives, people that I truly and sincerely adore, you'll find members of my religion. You'll also find drug addicts, drug traffickers, alcoholics, promiscuous people, transgender people, homosexual people, three pack a day smokers, cross dressers, unwed parents, people with multiple sexual partners/spouses, pagans, Jews, Evangelicals, atheists, Wiccans, people who fit more than one of those categories... all kinds of people whose lives do not mirror my standards. Why is this not a problem for me? Because they are my standards, that I have committed to live. They are not their standards.

And let it also be noted here, because this often gets overlooked, that these people love me, despite the fact that I live a vastly different life than they do.

Three of my children are adults, and the youngest is in high school, so now they sometimes hear details that I may not have shared when they were younger. They know now that one of their deeply loved bonus uncles spent years as a drug addicted, alcoholic, promiscuous manager of strippers. When they were children, I didn't let them in on those details, because they didn't need to know. They arguably don't need to know now, but we never ignored those things, or pretended that they didn't exist. We went the route of, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Sometimes, we said a lot of nothing.

We've always answered questions truthfully, though. When one of my daughters was working on a play that I was in, she asked one night, "Did (our makeup artist) used to be a woman?"

"Yes, he did. His name was (different) then. I knew him as (that person) when we did university theater together years ago."

"I though so. Don't tell him that I could tell."

"He's not touchy about it. He doesn't broadcast it, but he doesn't mind if you ask. Most of us knew him back then. It's not a secret." I don't know if she ever asked him anything - probably not - but it was just another piece of info, like what any of our actors did for a living.

I have never told my children to love someone despite our differences - I simply love that person. There's no need to qualify the feeling or the relationship.

I've never told them to choose only LDS friends, or to avoid certain people, or not to listen to a friend or relative if they have questions or want to explain their own beliefs or practices. When we've been invited to other churches, if our schedule allows we've said "yes." My kids have gone to Vacation Bible School with their friends. I have never displayed dismissive or superior attitudes because someone is different from me. I don't allow my kids to behave that way, either.

Someone once accused me of being "hateful" and "homophobic" because my religion teaches that homosexuality is aberrant behavior and because I believe that same sex unions (and perhaps even opposite gender civil unions) should be "partnerships" instead of "marriages." I felt compelled to point out that my toddlers were sitting on the lap of my gay, HIV+ best friend back in the 1980s, when people were terrified that the virus could be airborne - and, I might add, before my accuser was even born. I have little patience with anyone trying to give me a sensitivity lecture without knowing about my life. Don't assume that because you have one piece of information that you know me.

Do my kids always agree with me? No. As in so many other areas, I follow my mother's lead.

Two of my children have decided to leave my church. Keep in mind, according to my beliefs, this means that they have effectively opted out of the family unit. They may be in heaven, but they won't be my children in eternity. (This is, arguably, harder than my parents had it, since they had no beliefs about an afterlife or the state of one's eternal soul.) Is this painful? Deeply. Does it feel like rejection? Sure. Do I hope that one day, they change their minds? Absolutely. Do I love them less, criticize them more, insist that they move away, withdraw any financial help, tell their siblings to ignore them or plead with them, lie to our family and friends (or ask the children to do so), refuse to spend time with them or to take them on family trips, or engage in any other ridiculous, alienating behavior? No. Do I forbid discussion of religion? No. Do I continue to have weekly family night lessons that are religious in nature? Yes. I do things exactly the same way I always did. My choices are mine. Theirs are their own.

A friend asked not too long ago how I felt about something in my child's life. I replied with a wide smile, "I adore my child."

"Well, that's a very political answer," they said. Yes, it is. It's also the only thing that really matters. How I feel about my kids and their lives is 1. no one else's business, and 2. not going to change anything.

Thank you for your support.

Procreation

I wrote this over a decade ago. I felt sure that I'd shared it on the blog already, but I can't find it. One of my friends (young, pretty, pregnant with Baby #5) shared an article about how many expectant and young mothers didn't feel that society supported them. "I'm with you, sister!" was my reaction, even though I'm so old now that my daughters are the age I was when I had children in grade school. "Young" is far behind me.

Takeaway lesson, folks: there really is such a thing as "none of your business." Please don't ever be the busybody in the canned goods aisle.

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Two times in my life I have been totally unprepared for everyone around me to have such strong feelings about my life, and to express those feelings so frequently and strongly. The first was when I was getting married. I could never have imagined that others would be so emotionally invested in the color of my bridesmaids' dresses or what flowers I carried. People I barely knew would be vehement about what I should and shouldn't do. People who had planned their wedding with more attention to detail than went into the moon landing were apparently not burnt out by it, because now they wanted to do the same to mine. This came as a complete shock.

The second time came close on its heels – the birth of my children; especially the older two, since they were born during the first two years we were married. I had been somewhat prepared for our families and close friends to have strong opinions, but even then I was unprepared for those opinions to be foisted upon us with such zeal. And I was completely unprepared for total strangers to feel so invested in my choices. If someone had tried to warn me, I would not have believed them.

The first time a total stranger walked up to me and my pregnant tummy in the grocery store and demanded to know, "How old are you?" I thought they were an anomaly. I also thought, silly me, that when they found out that I was an adult and married, they'd feel rather silly and maybe even apologize. Nope.

"How old are you?" was inevitably followed by, "You're too young to be having babies!" Even now, years later, I cannot fathom what these women – it was usually women – thought these pronouncements would do. I was quite obviously past the stage for abortion to be an option, even if I agreed with abortion and even if such a discussion should be brokered by total strangers in the canned goods aisle. Did they want me to suddenly realize that I didn't want the baby or babies and give them up? Were they hoping I would resent the child for taking my youth? What result, exactly, did they hope this conversation would produce?

My sister in law tried to make sense of it by explaining, "When I see someone doing something that I think is wrong, I feel it's my job to educate them." Aside from the fact that I find that stance to be extremely presumptuous, how was I supposed to feel "educated?" I was the age I was, and the baby was clearly coming. I couldn't make myself older or make the baby disappear. If the conversation would ever have been appropriate, it would have been before I got pregnant. I'm also still and forever convinced that it is simply not the job of total strangers to start those kinds of conversations, before, during or after a pregnancy.

              A girlfriend of mine said, "It's not as if you're on welfare." Even if I was, why would that involve people I'd never met before and would never see again in my personal decisions? They weren't social workers handing me information about classes, they were busybodies who should have left me alone to buy my food in peace. Would being on welfare mean that everyone else was entitled to walk up to me and make pronouncements?

It became harder and harder to greet supposed humor with any kind of civility. Every time someone said, "Have you figured out what causes that yet?" they acted as though it was both wildly witty and original. It was neither. I was delighted by the response my husband gave when a coworker said it to him after we'd had our second daughter – "Yeah, but is that any reason to stop doing it?" I swore that would be my standard answer from then on.

I did start saying, with a smile, "Apparently not," when I was told I was too young for childbearing. It often caught people off guard, which was a bonus.

I could not believe how many strangers asked me about birth control, or offered birth control advice. I got the distinct impression that they thought I was somehow unaware of contraceptives and their use. It's just unacceptable to expect a complete stranger to discuss such things with you, unless you're a health care professional and they are your patient. It's also unreasonable to imagine that because someone is pregnant they are ignorant.

It's just as unreasonable to assume that someone having a baby hasn't thought it through. Even if that were true, that's another conversation that should only take place with those you are close to, and before a woman is pregnant. Once the baby's on the way, it's "ready or not, here I come." Yet people wanted to engage me in those conversations – or rather, deliver those lectures - while I was picking up laundry detergent, assuming that they were somehow enlightening me. It was maddening. "Do you realize what it costs to raise a child?" people would ask. Of course I did. I also knew I didn't need the total sum in cash in order to take the baby home from the hospital.

The woman who took the cake was the one who marched up to me as I was putting my oldest in a shopping cart. I had a huge, protruding tummy; I was about seven months along, which would have made my older daughter ten months old. This woman planted herself right in front of my cart, so I had to stop to avoid hitting her. She looked pointedly from my baby to my tummy and back again, and finally up at my face. "Well, at least you're done now!" she said, none too kindly. I was flabbergasted. At that moment I found myself speechless. Later, when people would say such rude things to me, I would say, with my best sugary smile and voice, "Actually, we're planning on more." It was absolutely none of their business, but I enjoyed returning the favor and making them uncomfortable. And, it was true.

We had to wait seven years for the birth of our next child. It was not our choice to wait; it was just a biological hiccup. I hoped that, since I was approaching thirty and therefore too old for the "you're too young" speech, that people would leave me alone. I was wrong.

I've always been a peacemaker, and my husband has a deep dislike for confrontation, but the older I got, the less I was willing to put up with this sort of rudeness without making a reply. When I went to a family wedding with my body swollen with my third child, my cousin looked at me and said, "Oh, you're not, are you?" I brightened as though he'd just given me a compliment and said, "That's right! I am!" I kept smiling and looked expectantly at him, as though I thought he would congratulate me. I knew better; he's stubborn and a father of one. I just wanted him to squirm a bit.

When a niece and nephew came to live with us, the comments from strangers intensified. They look very much like our own children; we had little blond stair steps. The first time they lived with us, I was pregnant. The second time that baby, our third, was one year old. Most of the comments were simply snarky and rhetorical – "Well, you've got your hands full, don't you?" Sometimes they were out and out rude – "What were you thinking?"

We were in a mall in California during a vacation when a woman reeking of alcohol walked up to me. Looking at our four little blond children and my very pregnant self she demanded, "Wha' are you gonna do wi' anuzzer one?"

I looked her right in the eye and said, "Love it."

She looked puzzled, but couldn't think of anything else to say. She wandered away, and my husband came up to pat me on the back. "Good answer, honey, good answer," he said. I felt as if I was playing "Family Feud."

When I told this story at home, one response I got made me just as angry as the original comment. "Just explain to people that you're a foster parent," the listener said. "That way they'll admire you. They'll know you're part of the solution."

I know the speaker meant well, but that made me angry. "It is nobody's business whether or not I gave birth to those children!" I told her. She couldn't understand why I thought so. To her, explaining that two of them were with us temporarily was the perfect idea. It just made me angry.

When someone asked how many children I had, I said five. Whether or not I gave birth to them, adopted them, or simply babysat them for an afternoon, it was totally unacceptable for anyone outside of a very small circle to say anything at all to us about it. After all these years, I still cannot fathom why a complete stranger would feel the need to walk up to me and express disapproval. I don't walk up and douse their cigarettes, dump their alcoholic drinks or ask if their tax returns are accurate.

                I felt much better about another friend's response to the story. I was telling her why I rejected the idea of explaining that I was a foster parent. "Well, of course!" she said. "Isn't the whole point to make them feel like they belong? Why would anybody want you to single them out that way? Think of the damage that would do." Exactly.

               Another instance that made me see red happened when I was expecting our fourth child; believe it or not, it happened more than once. People would look at our family and not be able to understand why I was pregnant. "But, you already have your boy," they would say, as if having a male child was the only reason for procreation. I wanted to slap them.

When I had our second daughter, I was in the hospital for five and a half days afterward. One of the night nurses was never outright rude, but it was obvious that she was a bit dismayed by attending to a 21 year old mother of two. One night, she began to tell me that it was wrong to have more children. She recited a litany of ills plaguing the Earth. Then she explained why she and her husband were childless. "The world is such a terrible place. We feel that it would it be wrong to bring any more children into it."

I smiled sweetly at her and said, "Really? My husband and I think that our children may be the ones to fix some of those problems."