The dreaded question: "Is this your first?"

I do not understand why this question is almost always the question I am asked. Other moms seem to be particularly interested in asking the question. Medical professionals nearly ubiquitously inquire after the answer. I am really, really hoping there is a reason to necessitate the question in that case. In fact any health care professional be it a massage therapist, acupuncturist, nutritionist, chiropractor, et cetera seem to need to know if this is my first child. Are people just curious? Is it a habit to ask?

I am much more tolerant of medical staff who ask me if this pregnancy is my first. I hope that my obstetrician is simply trying to evaluate if my pelvic girdle has widened because of a previous pregnancy or the duration of my labor because the length could be influenced if I have had a previous birth. Every year since Leslie was born I would come across some medical paperwork that would ask how many pregnancies I have had and completed. In a way, I am used to those impersonal almost anonymous questions that I answer in a waiting room somewhere. That does not mean that it did not hurt to answer the question. It always has. Now though, the situation has escalated.

Strangers ask me if this is my first child. Friends of friends see my growing pregnant belly and almost every time, with out fail I am asked the dreaded question. Sometimes I answer honestly. In fact, I even have an “elevator” answer. (I have been asked so many times now in the past three months that I have been showing that I have had to develop an elevator answer). Who has time to listen to my story, to hear all of the details, to know my pain when all they were after was a yes or no answer? My way of being polite is to answer either dishonestly or to give them my adoption elevator response.

It is so easy to get angry with this because I am regularly triggered by the question. Recently, I was at a local lab having my blood drawn for the gestational diabetes screening. I warned the phlebotomist that I am a bit weary of needles so she peppered me with small talk in order to distract me. The first question was, "How far along are you?" followed by, you guessed it, "Is this your first?" Sometimes I feel annoyed by the question. At other points I feel angry. If it happens at a particularly bad moment I feel very sad. When the phlebotomist asked me that dreaded question I was having a hard day. Two days before was Leslie's tenth birthday. Typically January through March are hard months for me. How are they hard? Well, the normal life stuff like an oil change, putting gas in the car, teeth cleaning, laundry, et cetera all build up and become monumental events that I simply cannot handle. I avoid my responsibilities during those months and procrastinate. I wait until the absolute last minute and then rush about trying to accomplish the tasks I have been avoiding. The other way in which those months become hard for me is my volatile emotional nature during that time. One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. On top of that, I am incredibly hard to please during this time.

On Leslie’s birthday I had a plan to distract myself from my feelings, namely through housework. I do not mean cleaning. Although it is an effective means of distraction, it does not fit with my procrastination technique used in the months of January, February, and March. Instead of cleaning I thought a little house decorating would do the trick. Yes, I do see the symbolism here... I do not want to clean my house (my house being my psyche), instead I want to decorate it. Hmmmmm.
The morning of Leslie's birthday I rushed off to the local farmer's market for Sunflowers. I bought a beautiful bouquet for $5. I also stopped by Target for the perfect red curtains for the guest bedroom and stopped by Michael's to pick up the poster I had custom framed. Excited by how improved I thought my house would be I rushed home. I quickly made lunch for my husband and I so that I could start on my projects. After procuring all of the necessary equipment, ladder, nails, hammer, I began by hanging the glass wall vases that would hold the Sunflowers. Two vases in and my husband inserts his opinion. Did he not get the memo that unsolicited opinions were off the agenda for the day? Apparently not, which makes sense because I never sent it. He was supposed to know after all. The calendar did read March 21st, didn't it? Jeff informs me that the vases are placed too low in the hallway and I just lose it. A wave of uncontrollable irritation rushes over me. I might have cried, but I really cannot be sure because my memory is clouded by the intensity of the emotion. I had noticed that where I placed the vases was not great, but hearing it aloud made it real. The failure thoughts set it. I cannot do anything right. Then I jump to the next fear. If I cannot manage to hang wall vases how can I handle being a mother? I could not handle it in high school, how am I any different now? I gave up on my project and relocated myself to the couch where I could really indulge in my pity-party. "I'm such a terrible person," "I'm a failure," "I can't handle life," and "I will be a terrible mother" plagued my psyche. I cried. I was defeated. The emotions and the thoughts beat me.

Somehow my husband sensed that if the project was finished I would feel a bit better. He hung the silly vases and I was especially grateful. Unfortunately, my feelings were bigger than I thought. They could not be subdued. The projects, dinner out, and a movie were unsuccessful distractions. I got through her birthday miserably, but at least the day would end. Well, the unmanageability of Sunday rolled into Monday. I could not manage simple conversations without tears. Errands still felt like mountains to climb. When the phlebotomist asked me if this child is my first, as usual, I lied. "Yes, this is my first" is how I responded and I left the lab feeling defeated.