How Many Kids Do You Have?

  I apologize, I can't remember if I've ever written about this or not. If I have I may change a word or two in this post. If I haven't, you get to hear it for the first time right along with me. This question has haunted me as long as I've been a mom. You see, the first time I was ever a mom in society's eyes was when I was hauling a car seat around with a chubby little girl in it. Back then they asked me "Is this your first?" I always wanted to say, "No. She's just the first that lived." But I didn't. Then came more babies and more losses. Three of each as you well know if you've been reading this blog for any length of time.

  Today I was having a conversation with a friend about how this question haunts me and tonight a friend posted a link to a similar article on my wall on Facebook. It talked about the pause in conversation when you ask one of us who doesn't have all their kids here how many we have. Then I thought about my pause. My pause is different than everybody else's pause. Naturally because everybody is different, but in my pause I'm in a time machine. I travel back in time at warp speed.

  "How many kids do you have?"

  "Three girls and a boy?"

  And there's me. I'm in a truck stop in Indiana, sobbing in the bathroom stall as I flush the toilet. Bleeding to death in the back of a taxi going 90mph down a dark interstate. Crying in my bathroom at the blood and the positive pregnancy test. Numb at the clinic when they tell me I'm having a miscarriage. I'm laying on the bed looking at the screen that should be showing a beating heart but isn't. I'm in a silent delivery room at the hospital. And then I'm rocking back and forth praying harder than I ever have in my life watching them try to bring my baby back. I'm looking into a doctor's eyes in the NICU when he says he's so sorry he couldn't fix it.

  But there I am, standing in the checkout line at Walmart, and you're waiting for me to answer you how many kids I have. "Four," I say, and feel the stab under my rib cage. I wince and look away while you gush on about how cute they all are. "Eight," I say, "But these are all I got to keep." and then watch as you drop your eyes and rush away without ever glancing back.

  "One boy with all these girls! You should have another boy to round it out a little." And I look at you and see my little boy. The one you can't see. The little one with dark hair and long fingers who isn't sitting in my shopping cart yelling at you to talk to him. I see him and I see you and I say, "We did that last year. He's not here anymore." and you apologize like there's no tomorrow while I feel glad I didn't let him down this time.

  I don't hate the question. Except for when I just heard a newborn crying across the store and I was just crying with it five minutes before you ask. If Jupiter and Saturn are rotating properly in orbit and the man in the moon parked his car in the south garage instead of the east one, I actually can manage to answer in a manner that I don't let my babies down and I don't make you gasp like a fish. Another thing I've found is that when I tell some people that not all of my kids are here, they in turn tell me about their missing babies too. And then we stand and talk for half an hour in the book aisle at Savers.

  You can always tell the people who get it by their reaction. People who care about other people aren't deterred by the real answer. People who use the question as filler generally create dust under their heels as they leave. It would be quite nice I think if everybody would start to care about the answer when they ask a question. It creates a warm feeling in a spot in your heart that is filled to the brim with hurt and tears and dashed hopes.

  So next time you ask me that question dear stranger, and I tell you that these kids are the ones I got to keep, just remember. You now know where the man in the moon parked last night!