As we drove home from the hospital after welcoming our fourth baby, a son we named Leo, I turned to my husband and asked, “What should we say when people ask how many kids we have?” He paused and replied, “We only have three. We only have three here with us.” And that is still true more than two years later. We have three children with us on this planet—singing along in the car, sharing meals at our table. Leo was once a tiny miracle, weighing in at just 3 pounds and 1 ounce, but one day he was here, and the next, he was gone. We held him for just four hours before his little body was taken away, leaving us forever changed.
For many parents who have faced the heart-wrenching loss of a child, the innocent question, “How many kids do you have?” can feel like a punch in the gut. It’s the sort of casual question that can pop up when meeting a new neighbor, chatting with a fellow parent at school, or striking up a conversation in the grocery store.
For a long time, I wrestled with how to respond. Some other grieving moms encouraged me to honor Leo by mentioning him and saying I had four children. I’ve read so many heartfelt posts where moms implore others to include their lost children in their “count” to keep their memory alive. Many assert that failing to mention a lost child is a disservice to their memory, even if it makes the asker uncomfortable.
I see things a bit differently. After losing Leo, we relocated from Colorado back to Montana, landing in a new neighborhood filled with strangers. My oldest daughter was starting kindergarten, and every day presented new encounters with friendly faces. I pondered how I would handle the inevitable question about my children. Part of me wanted to boldly declare, “I have three daughters and one son, but our son passed away.” I thought about how important it was to honor Leo’s existence, regardless of the discomfort it might cause.
I tried this approach a few times, but each time I mentioned him, tears would flow. Suddenly, I found myself standing in front of someone I barely knew, crying and unearthing my grief just to provide an answer I felt pressured to give. It wasn’t working for me. Responding with “four” turned a light-hearted moment into a painful one. Those who didn’t know me were suddenly privy to my deepest sorrow moments after learning my name. Yes, they now knew I’d had four babies, but they also left feeling sad and guilty for asking such a simple question.
I could picture them later saying, “I met this woman at the park, and when I asked her how many kids she had, she just lost it! I felt awful for asking!” I decided that Leo’s name and his place in our family are too precious to be associated with feelings of pity or guilt. When it comes to new acquaintances, I want to feel safe, knowing they will cherish Leo even without having met him.
Once I’ve built a solid rapport with someone, I feel more comfortable sharing about him and his place in our lives. Those moments are filled with love and understanding from people I trust. Sadly, Leo isn’t physically with us, but we do have three daughters here. Answering a stranger with “three” is an accurate response. In the future, I might choose to tell them about Leo, or I might not, depending on my feelings and the relationship we’re building.
Consequently, I’ve learned to be cautious when asking new people how many children they have. I respect their right to share that information as they see fit, understanding that this seemingly simple question may hold complex emotions. For further reading on related topics, check out this excellent resource on in vitro fertilisation.
Summary:
Navigating the question of how many children you have after losing a child is a deeply personal experience. While some may feel compelled to include their lost child in their count to honor their memory, others may choose to respond differently based on their comfort level and relationship with the person asking. Ultimately, it’s essential to approach this question with sensitivity and respect.