By Nancy Rabinowitz

     "Are they natural?" asked a stranger at a fundraising dinner, after learning that I am pregnant with twins.
      "No, they're synthetic," I answered. Well, no, I didn't. But I wanted to. I'm tired of the almost daily queries into my fertility status. It seems that when people hear the word "twins," they lose all sense of propriety. Perhaps because of the extensive media attention given to assisted reproductive technologies, total strangers become oddly obsessed with finding out how it happened that my husband and I are expecting two babies, instead of the more socially acceptable one. No one would ever ask an expectant mother of a singleton, "How many times did you have sex before you got pregnant?" But these same people unabashedly delve into my procreative process.
      Some people are blatant. "Oh, did you take fertility drugs?" they ask with the same nonchalance they would use to inquire about my recipe for peach jam. Some are subtly offensive, like a woman I met sitting in a restaurant. "I'm a twin!" she exclaimed with a smile. "But that was nearly forty years ago when twins were natural." (As opposed to my demon spawn.) And some respond to the news of our twins in a manner so rude it's astonishing: "Did you say twins? Oh my God! Bet you're sorry about those fertility drugs now!"

      What none of these people seems to realize—or at least to acknowledge—is that to ask or make assumptions about fertility is about as personal as it gets. These procreation nosy-bodies are, in effect, asking about my sex life: Do I have some fatal flaw as a woman? Or, (and I can almost see the gleeful horror in their eyes) is my husband somehow … incapable? Did we do it alone? Did we "do it" at all?
      I dream of appropriate comebacks, always after the fact: "Why, are you infertile?" or "How's your sex life?" But the real question I want to ask is: Why do you care? Do you think that children born from fertility treatments are less real, less of an accomplishment, less worthy by virtue of medical intervention? Maybe people ask because they want to feel superior. After all, they didn't need any help. Perhaps they think that we will love our babies less if they are born of medical science. That somehow, they are not really ours. What must they think of adoptive parents? I can only imagine the questions they must get.
      Of course, the appropriate comeback is "None of your business." But that would be rude. Never mind how rude the question that elicited that response in the first place. But the truth is, I do mind. I mind it more, even, than the people who, in response to learning about our pregnancy, feel mysteriously compelled to tell us horror stories about their friends. "You're pregnant? Fabulous! You know, a friend of mine lost her pregnancy in her seventh month!" Or my personal favorite, from a lawyer friend, "I just handled a case where a woman died in childbirth. Boy, did that hospital have to pay up!"
      Great. I'll be sure to call you if this pregnancy happens to kill me and I'm short on cash.
      At least the horror-story people are simply revealing a flaw in their own sensitivity, a propensity for gloom, or a distinct lack of self-editing skills. People who ask about fertility drugs, however, are not revealing something about themselves; they're seeking to uncover some perceived failing in me.
      Not that infertility is a failing. It is a diagnosable medical condition, no more shameful than diabetes or male pattern baldness. And fertility treatments are an example of medical science at its best. They help millions of couples every year create families. They bring new life into this world. What could possibly be shameful in that?
      Yet I decline to answer the question again and again. When people ask "Did you take fertility drugs?" I simply answer, "There are a lot of twins in my family." Which is true but is also, of course, not an answer at all. Why should I answer? To say no would be somehow degrading to those who did use treatments. To say yes would inevitably lead to even more personal questions; "what's wrong with you?" comes to mind. The bottom line is, however they got there, these are our babies—not an excuse for some stranger to pry into the most intimate details of our private life.
       Not that everyone is rude or invasive. Every once in a while when I tell someone I'm expecting twins, they simply smile and say congratulations. Maybe these people are also wondering whether or not my husband and I used assisted reproductive technologies, but they have enough good breeding not to ask. Or maybe they realize, as we did, finding out we were pregnant after months of emotionally, financially, and physically demanding fertility treatments, that medically aided or not, every pregnancy is a miracle, and every child worthy of celebration. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Nancy Rabinowitz is a freelance television writer and producer specializing in launching new shows and networks. She recently launched into motherhood and lives in New York City with her husband and twin boy and girl. This is her first published piece.

"When I wrote this essay, I was still pregnant. I assumed once the pregnancy was over, the questions would be, too. Wrong. Now, people don’t ask me how I "got" my babies, they just ask about them. Do they sleep? Do I sleep? Do I want more? (No, no, who knows.) Several people have asked whether my boy/girl twins are identical. "Yes," I want to answer, "except that one has a penis and the other …" The questions are still personal, but I don’t mind. It’s partly sleep deprivation—all other annoyances pale in comparison. But mostly, it’s now that my children are here, I could talk about them endlessly—with absolutely anyone who will listen."