In various social settings—be it a school open house, a sports event, or a waiting room—I’m frequently met with the same question: “How many children do you have?” My typical response is four. This inevitably leads to some mental gymnastics for the questioner, who begins to count and realizes that my answer exceeds the three children they see around me. This often prompts a series of follow-up inquiries:
Common Questions I Encounter
“Are the others with the grandparents?” This query usually comes from older individuals eager to share their grandparent pride.
“Is Dad watching the other one?” This is often posed by curious middle-aged women, perhaps hoping for some sensational story to discuss later. I sometimes wear my wedding ring on my middle finger, prompting this question after a quick glance at my hands. (As a side note, let’s clarify: Dads don’t “babysit”; they parent, just like moms do.)
“Traveling light today? Four kids must be a lot to manage!” This comes from what I like to call the “No Shit Sherlocks,” who point out the obvious while reinforcing their perception that having four children is overwhelming. Ironically, many of these individuals oppose free birth control—go figure.
The conversation often takes a poignant turn when I share my most profound truth: my eldest son passed away when he was five years old.
A Heartbreaking Loss
November 3rd, 2011, marked the darkest day of my life. Just a week shy of my twenty-seventh birthday, what we initially thought was a persistent cold turned out to be devastating. The loss struck suddenly and intensely, like a catastrophic event ripping through our family. The emotional fallout affected not only us but also everyone connected to us, altering our identities and futures.
Even though I’ve lived without him longer than I was blessed to have him, articulating that pain remains incredibly difficult, especially to strangers who have no real connection to my story. Many seem to gather personal details to fuel their own gossip, reducing profound struggles to mere conversation starters. The idea that something so incredibly painful could become fodder for casual chatter is disheartening.
Yet, when asked about my children, I can’t exclude him. Saying I have three would be a lie—a disservice to his memory. Though he is not physically present, he influences every aspect of my life. His existence shaped who I am today, and whether here or not, he will always be my child.
Different Ways to Grieve
My approach to acknowledging his presence is not universally applicable. I recall how my father, who lost his only son when I was young, would respond with a more ambiguous answer: “I still have these two at home.” I understand this perspective well; revealing deep-seated pain at someone else’s prompt can leave one feeling exposed and vulnerable. There is no single correct way to grieve, nor are there rules governing how to parent a child who has passed. This is simply my way.
He will forever be a part of our family narrative. Therefore, regardless of the questioner’s intent or setting, I will always include him in my count.
1…2…3…4
I have four children.
Further Reading
For more insights on family building and home insemination, consider exploring this resource on pregnancy or check out this informative article about the journey through insemination.
Summary
This reflection highlights the complexities of discussing family in the context of loss. The author shares the emotional weight of including a deceased child in conversations about her living children, emphasizing the ongoing presence of that child in her life. The narrative also touches on societal perceptions of parenting and the need for compassionate understanding in discussions about family dynamics and grief.