Allow me to direct you to a recent post on the always-excellent blog, Paragraphein.

In it, author Nicole writes about an innocent little conversation-starter that can be pretty darn painful for us birthparents. The question: “Do you have any children?” It comes up often, and usually in the worst sorts of circumstances.

It’s just a friendly question, so what makes it so bad? It’s that every time we are asked, we have to make a choice—and none of them are easy. For instance, we can say:

• “Yes.” (Bad choice because it leads to more questions that you can’t answer.)
• “Yes, but I’m not raising him.” (Cuts the conversation dead. Awkward silences ensue.)
• “Yes, but I entrusted him to adoptive parents at birth.” (Wild card – you can get all kinds of responses to this one, but they’re almost always icky.)
• “No.” (Makes you feel like hell, for denying your child.)

I’m actually facing this issue right now.

At my old job, I was very open about my son. That was mostly because the pregnancy and surrender happened while I worked there, so everyone knew. But I also made a vow that I would never deny my son’s existence. And I was trying to take a stand, because I believe that nothing will ever change for birthparents unless we become more vocal and visible. I don’t want anyone who crosses my path to think that they don’t know any birthparents. (That’s why I use my full name on this blog, and it’s why I display pictures of my son in my office and in my wallet.)

But at my new job, I didn’t want to march right in and identify as The Woman Who Gave Her Baby Away. It’s not shame so much as practicality; I know how that identity will pigeonhole me. So I struggle.

It’s such a dilemma--how to deal with this question honestly while not being socially graceless or denying our child. As Nicole writes, each time we’re asked,

“…we’re on the spot: and we have to decide whether to acknowledge our relinquished child (as our mothers’ hearts want to, for oh, our kids are reason to be proud!) and at the same time open ourselves up for criticism, and make other people uncomfortable; or whether to stay silent, protect our past from scrutiny and protect the questioner’s comfort, and yet burn in shame for not letting the pride in our kids overcome our own fears.

As Nicole says, no matter how you answer, you're going to end up feeling bad.

But there’s another reason The Question is so painful. Again, she nails it right on the head:

“When someone asks me that question (How many kids do you have?), I am faced with a choice, the choice, all over again. The choice of whether to claim my daughter–and my parenthood status– as my own, or to “give” her–and my parenthood–to someone else.

I get that same feeling, the very same one, that I had when I stood over the relinquishment papers, pen in hand, and struggled for the final (or so I thought) time over whether to keep my daughter as mine, or whether to sign away my rights.”

As for me, I no longer casually ask new acquaintances whether they have kids. I don’t know whether they’ve lost one to miscarriage, or death, or divorce, or something else—and it’s really not my business.

Meanwhile, I keep on wrestling with how to be honest, tactful, proud, and stand up for a reformed view of birthparents, all at the same time. That’s a lot of contradictory impulses to have running through your head, each time a simple question is asked.