How Many Kids Do You Have?

Opening the door to the neighborhood brewery, I was greeted with a gust of warm air. I stepped into the warmth and out of the snow, rubbing the cold out of my hands. It was February, and Minneapolis was still in the thick of winter. Surprised by how busy it was on a random Tuesday night, I made my way through the crowd to the private room at the back where I was told I’d find the PTO fundraising committee.

Since my medically complex son Declan’s passing, I’ve tried to start getting involved in things that I would not have been able to participate in when he was alive. Like the PTO for his twin’s school. Every year, they put on an event called the “Bid and Bowl”. Last year we couldn’t even make the event. This year I volunteered to help.

It’s not that we didn’t want to go before. The event sounds fun. Food, beer, bowling, an auction, games, and nice people? Right up my alley (pun intended). In the past though, getting out for a night meant finding someone to watch the kids. Including Declan. And finding someone to watch Declan was a showstopper. We had to pull too many strings to make it happen – he was too complex.

Now that the barrier that once made these things virtually impossible is gone, I suddenly have the freedom to participate. Which is how I found myself saying ‘yes’ to the email asking for volunteers for this year’s “Bid and Bowl”.

Approaching the group of strangers, a woman looked up and smiled at me. “Are you here for the PTO meeting?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Great!” she replied, gesturing to an empty seat next to her. “Grab a seat! If you want a beer, there’s a tab open.”

I offered a tentative smile in return, unexpectedly nervous. I think ten years of intense caregiving made me rusty at socializing.

“Thank you,” I said, lowering myself into the seat. “I’ve been trying to steer clear of alcohol on weeknights. But absolutely zero judgement,” I said as I pulled my kombucha out of my bag.

As the rest of the group arrived, calling out hellos to obvious friends, I found myself being much quieter than I would have been in the past. Gauging the group and trying to determine if anyone in this outgoing bunch could become a friend.

And then the woman next to me projected her voice to get the group’s attention. “Shall we start with intros? We have a couple of new faces tonight,” she said as she checked her list of names. “Let’s do a quick one. Your name, how many kids you have, and how old they are. I’ll start.”

I froze. Do I say two, and leave Declan out? Or do I say three and explain that one of my children died?

Thank goodness they didn’t start with me and went in the opposite direction so that I was last. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done or said without time to prepare.

By the time it was my turn, I had decided to say, “Two. I have a ten-year-old in fourth grade and a toddler who will be two soon.” And then we moved on.

I know there are parents who always include the child they lost in their count. I have heard that they say - “And one who would be x years old if (s)he were still with us.” Or “And one who is with God.” Or “And one who we lost when (s)he was x years old.”

The trouble with that is then they’d all know. They’d all be looking at me with pity in their eyes. They wouldn’t know what to say. Things would get (even more) awkward. And I would no longer be someone that they could be friends with. I’d be the bereaved mom. I’d become the sob story. The person to pity.

At least that is how I assumed they’d see me, and what I feared would happen.

At the same time, it felt wrong. We were sitting at the very tables where we had held Declan’s celebration of life, just 5 months prior. Where I had put up his photos and videos. Where friends and family cried and laughed and honored him. And then 5 months later I was denying his existence? How could I say that I was holding him in my heart and honoring his life – and then deny him? How could I sit in that space, of all spaces, and leave him out of my child count? What does that say about me as a mother, as a person?

I am aware of the flaws in this thought process. And I hope that any other bereaved parent reading this can see it too. If you are reading this and feeling compassion for me, I hope that you continue to feel it when you are examining yourself. Because compassion and grace shouldn’t just be for other people. We owe those things to ourselves as well.

The truth is, it doesn’t matter if I say two or three. What matters isn’t what anyone else thinks. What matters is that I honored my own capacity for vulnerability. When I realized I didn’t feel the safety I needed to be vulnerable, I avoided the topic. And that doesn’t mean I loved Declan any less. It doesn’t mean I’m not honoring him, or that I’ve forgotten him. It simply means I was being kind to myself and not forcing myself to be vulnerable in a situation where I didn’t feel safe to do so. After loss, there isn’t a universally right answer to the question how many kids do you have? - only the one you can live with in the moment.

Declan will always be with me. Sometimes I’ll talk about him. Sometimes I won’t. But it is my choice when I do that. When it feels safe. When I choose. And compassion for myself reminds me that that’s ok. I hope you can remember that too.