When we drove home from the hospital after welcoming our fourth child, a son named Max, I turned to my partner and asked, “What should we say when people inquire about how many kids we have?” He paused for a moment and replied, “We have three. Only three are with us.”
That was the truth then, and it remains so more than two years later. Our family consists of three lively children playing in the backyard, singing in the car, and gathering around the dinner table. Max was once alive within me, but in a heart-wrenching turn, he was no longer with us the next day. We held him, a delicate 3 pounds and 1 ounce, for just four hours before we had to say goodbye.
For many parents who have experienced the loss of a child, the seemingly simple question, “How many children do you have?” can stir profound emotions. It’s a question that can arise in casual conversations with neighbors, other parents at school, or even strangers at the grocery store.
Initially, I found myself grappling with how to respond. Friends who had also lost children encouraged me to mention Max and assert that I have four children, to honor his memory. Many shared sentiments suggesting that failing to include a lost child in the count meant neglecting their legacy. But I felt differently.
After we lost Max, we relocated from Colorado back to our home state of Wyoming. Suddenly, I was surrounded by unfamiliar faces in a new neighborhood. My eldest daughter began kindergarten, presenting countless opportunities for introductions at the playground and school. These encounters were often with kind, smiling individuals who might have become friends or merely acquaintances.
I pondered what I would say when inevitably faced with the query, “How many kids do you have?” I wanted to be the mother who proudly acknowledged my lost son, saying, “I have three daughters and a son, but he passed away.” I thought I could handle the discomfort it might cause; after all, I wanted to honor Max’s existence. But each time I tried, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion, crying as I uttered his name in front of someone I barely knew.
The simple act of saying “four” transformed a moment that could be enjoyable into one of heartache for me. Those who didn’t know me were suddenly thrust into my grief, witnessing a side of my story that was deeply personal. I could envision their reactions afterward, thinking, “I asked this woman about her kids, and she became emotional. I feel awful for asking!”
I realized that Max’s memory is too precious to be linked with feelings of guilt or pity. When meeting new people, I wanted to feel assured they would cherish his memory, even without having met him.
Once I built a trusting relationship with someone, I would share his story and his place in our family. Those moments felt right and filled with love, surrounded by individuals who understood me and cared for my journey.
Sadly, Max is not physically here with us. We have three daughters who brighten our lives each day. Responding with “three” when asked about my children is completely accurate. In the future, I may share about Max, or I might not, depending on the moment, my feelings, and the evolving relationship.
Conversely, I now approach the question of how many children others have with sensitivity. I recognize that the answer may be complex and deeply personal, and it’s best left for them to share in their own time.
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In summary, the question “How many children do you have?” can evoke a complex mix of emotions for parents who have experienced loss. It’s important to navigate these conversations with care, ensuring that the memories of lost children are honored in ways that feel right to each individual.