For a woman, mom not being defined by your kids isn’t easy

I was in a store in town recently when a friend grabbed my arm and ushered me over to another woman. 'Tell this lady what you write!” She said excitedly. 'Tell her what you are working on right now.”

I launched into a detailed explanation of a story I was writing for a publication about the phenomenon of lithopedion babies, when a child becomes calcified in the womb and basically turns into stone. I was excited. People don't usually ask about my work. On the job ranking 'writer” falls somewhere between being on Donald Trump's PR team and unicorn wrangler-less than honorable and purely imaginary.

I was so excited to explain the story that I failed to notice the horrified looks on the woman's faces. 'No,” my friend said, 'your parenting writing, about your kids.”

'Oh yeah, my kids,” I said. 'I write about them too.”

The other woman never said anything. She just clutched her purse, her face calcified in horror.

This year has been a good one for me. I've had some professional success and I finally fit into pants that I bought before I had children. Given that, 2016 is looking up.

Yet, the main question I have fielded at family events over the holidays were my plans for a third child. My plans right now are right up there with my plans to become part of Trump's PR team: nonexistent.

I politely defected the questions: nothing; my children were wonderful; my life was great; and if we wanted to talk about my uterus, I'd love to know if anyone switched to an IUD this year. But is was to no avail. The questions kept coming. And they will keep coming until my youngest is in high school and everyone wants to know what I will do with my free time. Cure cancer? Finally clean that oatmeal off the table? Or I don't know, do exactly what I've been doing for the past decade: working.

My husband never fields questions like this. No one asks him about his family planning. Everyone is concerned with is career, his plans for our 90-year-old home (which counts as his hobby) and the state of his cholesterol. This is only his fault in as much as being born a man was his fault.

In turn, I am never asked about my career, my plans for running races (which counts as my hobby), or my chronic mucous drainage problem, which I can wax poetic on if given the chance. I am never given the chance. I am only asked about my children.

Friends of mine who have no children often complain that the only thing they are asked about is when they will have children. I have two, and I still get asked these questions. I tell them that it never gets better. Whether your womb is full or empty, you are still defined by its fruit, The sad truth is that nothing a woman can do can satiate the voracious appetite society has for her uterus.

In 2013, the New York Times was criticized for publishing an obituary of a rocket scientist that made more mention of her children and cooking skills than her incredible achievements. Rocket scientist or middling writer, we can't escape being defined by our sex.

The problem is a mixed one. My children are both the best thing I have ever created. I love talking about them and sharing stories of my daughter's mummy obsession or my son's toothy little grins. But they are not the only thing about me. I both cherish them and struggle to maneuver out from their looming shadow. My children are my everything, but they are not my only thing. And if 2016 goes my way, it will bring me more stories about stone babies and less actual babies.

l Lyz Lenz is a writer, mother of two and hater of pants. Email her at eclenz@gmail.com or find her writing at LyzLenz.com.