Earlier this week, a coworker and I were talking about how we celebrated Mother’s Day, and I said that my moms had come to visit me and we’d gotten lunch. “Your moms?” my coworker asked, clearly wondering if I’d made some kind of verbal grammatical error.

“My moms,” I repeated. I was hoping she’d drop it.

No such luck. “Oh, like your mom and your stepmom?”

“No,” I said. It was hard not to be annoyed at that point, but I did my best. “My moms. As in two moms. Lesbians.”

“That’s so cool!” she said. I’ve heard a lot of reactions to that statement over time, and luckily, that response has become the prevalent one over the once popular, “You’re going to hell.” I floated along for a few minutes, basking in the glow of a tolerant interaction, only to have my bubble burst when my coworker piped up again, “So how were you born?”

Imagine, if you will, a world in which your well-meaning coworker asked you how you were born. Not just how you were born, but specifically, how you were conceived. When you explain, in the vaguest way possible, they press the point: “No, really, how were you born?” How would you respond? With the gory details? Would you call up your parents and ask for an exact description of the night you were conceived? Of course not. More likely, you’d look at them like they’d lost their mind. Because in no world is it acceptable for a friendly acquaintance or even a friend to demand such personal details. But I’ve been asked that question hundreds of times. That question and more.

For some reason, it’s considered totally acceptable to ask children of same-sex parents the sort of questions that would never be appropriate to ask someone from a more “traditional” family. When I was younger and I told people that I have two moms, I’d get at best an ambivalent reaction, and at worst one that was outright hostile. Neither of those were fun to deal with. But it’s not fun when people react to my parentage like I’m an exotic zoo specimen, either. I’m comfortable sharing the details of my family’s genesis. I’m not ashamed of my origins. But I hate how people ask for that information like they’re entitled to it.

And that’s not the only question they ask. I’ve had people ask me which of my parents is the mom and which of them is the dad – implying, of course, that two women can’t be in a relationship without compulsively reenacting traditional gender roles. I’ve had people I considered friends tell me that I was doomed for a lifetime of daddy issues because my upbringing didn’t include a man. I’ve had people ask me every inappropriate question you can think of, and I’m expected to smile and answer politely – because if I don’t, my actions will reflect not just on me, but on my parents and the institution of lesbian parenting as a whole. So I answer, and I wonder when my family will stop being treated like an oddity and start being treated like any other family.

I’m tired of being everyone’s encyclopedia of same-sex parenting. If you’re so desperate to know how everything works, the internet has some useful tools for explaining it. And if you’re interested in my conception specifically, you should ask yourself if you’d be so interested in the birth of your other friends. Or if you’d even be asking if I hadn’t told you I had two moms 30 seconds ago.