Strangers often ask if my twins are natural. “No,” I tell them. “Astroturf.” They want to know if I used I.V.F. None of their business. I didn’t, but that hasn’t made the experience of having multiples any more normal, or anything close to natural.

My first daughter was only 2 when I learned I was having twins, and so I still remembered clearly how giddy people were when I was pregnant with her. They’d gleefully tell me tales of 30-hour labors, leaky bladders, struggling marriages. Not so with multiples. From the beginning, people reacted badly to the news. It was as if I had the plague and were coughing in their living room. One friend was openly angry. Some wanted to know exactly what to do to avoid this happening to them. Others just wrinkled their noses as if I’d stepped into a dog-deposited mess. “No,” they said. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Better you than me.” And I would agree. Because even when a good friend e-mailed to remind me that my uterus is not a clown car, I still felt as if I’d won the lottery.

Medically, I was treated differently as well. Multiples are now considered high-risk pregnancies, so I got to spend 20 minutes once a month watching the babies on an ultrasound and listening to their tandem, Cuban-dance-party heartbeats. I learned how to turn up the volume on the fetal monitor when the tech left the room. It was bliss to be alone, just the three of us, until the doctor barged in and stuck a wand between my legs.