As we drove home from the hospital after the birth of our fourth child, a son named Lucas, I turned to my partner, Jake, and asked, “How should we respond when people inquire about how many kids we have?” He paused for a moment and said, “We have three. Only three here with us.”
That statement has lingered with me. Over two years have passed, and it still rings true: we have three children with us on this Earth. Lucas was once alive inside me, and in an instant, he was gone. He weighed just 3 pounds and 2 ounces when he was placed in my arms. We cradled him for a few hours before we had to say goodbye.
For many who have faced the heartbreaking experience of losing a child, the question “How many children do you have?” can feel like a dagger. It’s a benign query often posed by new acquaintances, whether they’re neighbors, fellow parents, or even strangers at a store.
Initially, I struggled to find the right response. Other parents who have endured similar losses urged me to honor Lucas by acknowledging him in my count, saying, “I have four children.” They emphasized that failing to include him would mean forgetting him. However, I have a different perspective.
After we moved from Colorado back to our home state of New York, I found myself in a community filled with new faces. Our eldest daughter was starting kindergarten, and we were frequently meeting new people at the school and playground. I thought long and hard about how to address the inevitable question, “How many kids do you have?” I wanted to be a mother who proudly said, “I have three daughters and one son, but we lost him.” I thought I could handle the discomfort that might arise, believing it was essential to honor Lucas’s existence.
However, when I attempted to include him in my response, I often ended up in tears, caught off guard by the wave of grief that followed. Those innocent individuals, unaware of my story, would witness my sorrow moments after learning my name. While they might have learned that I had given birth to four children, they also bore witness to my pain and possibly felt remorse for asking such a simple question.
I imagined them later discussing their encounter, saying, “I met this woman at the park who started crying when I asked about her kids. I felt awful!” The weight of that sorrow was more than I wanted to share with strangers.
I realized that Lucas’s name and role in our family were too precious and sacred to be linked with feelings of guilt or pity. With new acquaintances, I prefer to wait until I’ve built a deeper relationship before sharing about him. When I do, those moments tend to be filled with love and understanding, surrounded by people who know and value me.
Sadly, Lucas is not physically here with us. Right now, we have three daughters. Therefore, when asked by a stranger, responding with “three” feels perfectly accurate. In the future, I may choose to share about Lucas or I might not; it all depends on the moment and my emotional state. Ultimately, the nature of the relationship will help determine if and when I share his story.
In turn, I approach the question of how many children others have with care. I recognize that it’s a deeply personal inquiry, and individuals can disclose as much or as little as they wish without pressure from me, a stranger.
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In summary, the question “How many children do you have?” can evoke profound emotions for those who have experienced loss. Each person’s response is personal and shaped by their unique journey. It’s essential to approach this question with sensitivity, recognizing that sometimes, silence is just as powerful as a response.