How Many Kids Do You Have?

“How many kids do you have?” 

I get asked this often. It’s a question I have struggled with since June died. When asked, I still don’t know what to say. My jaw drops and I’m paralyzed over this jarring question. I never respond with the same answer and it’s not because I’m out of practice. There is just no right answer. Nothing I say aligns with what feels right. No response I have to this question ever feels good. A consistent internal struggle. A need to sort it all out. A question I’ll be asked for eternity. My response is twofold. I must protect myself and also honor June. By saying I have two children, I omit June and I lie. I can feel a wet ball of anxiety climbing up my throat to the back of my tongue just behind my salivary glands. It’s tempting me to cry. By saying I have three children, I open up room for more questioning which could potentially expose her truth and ours. Depending on who I am speaking with, I may not want this exposure. I may not want to be vulnerable with the woman standing behind me in the grocery line who’s impatiently watching me feed my children snacks in between unloading the groceries onto the conveyor belt. There exist these times when I desperately need to hide behind the response, “I have two children.” Either way, I am at a loss. June’s physical absence is tangible every time someone asks me “how many children do you have?”. 

I liked this question before June died. I was proud of the little humans my body magically created, and I loved talking about them. Still do. They fascinate me on many levels.

It begins every morning, when I first look into their eyes. I see something bigger than myself. I realize I am learning as much from them as they are from me. Their beauty is all encompassing perfection which spills out of them into their surroundings. I am so fortunate to live in these very surroundings. Naturally and passively, I soak in their energies. At times, I carefully curate our interactions, aware of the influence I have as their parent. I allow it to be a children’s world, and as long as they’re safe, I’m just living in it.

I contemplate the first words I will say to them every morning. I choose my words carefully. Words that I can pour into them, just as they unknowingly pour into me. I crack open my son’s door and peek my head inside grinning ear to ear. I say, “Good morning my sweetest boy!” in the calmest, and yet most enthusiastic voice I have. My eyes widen when our eyes meet to reflect his great pale baby blues. He is standing in his crib, gripping the edge, awaiting this moment. He begins jumping up and down. Squeaks of the most joyous dolphin-sounding laugh fills the room. I scoop him up, kiss his cheeks, hug his little body close to mine, and sit down with him in the rocking chair. He drinks the warm bottle of milk I’ve brought him while I breathe in his sweet sleepy smell. He’s splayed comfortably across my lap. His sister joins us because she has been up for an hour already, painting at the dining room table, eating breakfast. She climbs onto my lap and lifts my sons legs over hers. She takes the bottle in her hand and rests her head on my shoulder. I place my arm around her. She whispers to him as she feeds him his bottle. He giggles and chokes, giggles and chokes, yet somehow manages to drink it all. Our mornings when we first wake are quiet, gentle, and cuddly. A slow crescendo to breakfast which we inevitably arrive at and where everyone is talking, laughing, yelling, running or falling down and crying. 

I love talking about my kids. I hope the question of how many I have will eventually become easier. I don’t fault anyone for asking. One day, I may be able to tell a stranger that I have three children without welling up with tears and possibly when only two of them are standing in front of that stranger. I don’t foresee the heartache going away any time soon, however, when I see three kids and a mom together. Or when the oldest two are girls, and the youngest a boy.

Recently, I was asked a different question. A single question I often get when I’m in public with my two kids. Also one that almost always comes after I’m asked how many children I have. A woman looked at my children and asked me how old they were. “One and almost five.” I responded with a terse smile to insinuate I wasn’t up for a chitty-chat. “Wow, they are almost four years apart. You are so smart. My kids were twenty-two months apart!” She could only see what was in front of her. She couldn’t see June. She didn’t know my eldest daughter has a sister who was just twenty-three months younger. “Yeah, wow!” I pretended to be impressed by how this woman could have managed to raise two children only twenty-two months apart. But the truth is, it is hard. I feel for her. Maybe it’s not what she had planned. I get that because I too, had other plans.