How Many Kids Do I Have?

Navigating questions about how many children you have following the loss of pregnancy, stillbirth, or infant death.

Toilet paper was in short supply. Zoom stock was thriving as online meetings became the normal route for most human interactions. For those who dared in-person encounters, we were getting used to seeing the upper half of the face as it peaked over a well-worn mask covering the potential sources of contagion.  It was the early months of COVID.

I had worked in inpatient mental for many years at that point. I was no stranger to moving through the brief transitional space between the outside world and the locked psych units. A sallyport is a controlled entryway that allows people to more securely enter and exit a locked area. They are usually quite small and consist of nothing more than a few feet of empty space between one locked door and another. But during the time of COVID, those sallyports transformed as they filled that once empty space with staff PPE. Each staff member had a bin with that week’s mask and gown, and a horribly unflattering pair of protective glasses.  

I had just come back from maternity leave after having my daughter. Linara was born 13 months after Otis died. It was an odd world to be rejoining, particularly given the fact that the world looked “normal” when I left. But after the last year+, I had just had, a little pandemic was nothing.

 I wasn’t officially the supervisor yet (though I would be promoted in a few months). But since I was the most seasoned social worker on the team at the time, I was responsible for onboarding the newest staff member.

“So you were running a little late this morning because of the baby?” she asked as she removed her regular mask that was approved for office spaces, and put on her n95 which was required for patient areas. As she changed masks, I got a glimpse of her mouth. It felt positively scandalous.

We were the only two staff in the sallyport.

“Yeah. There was poop involved. She needed a bath before I left for work.”

“Got it.” The new social worker laughed.  “It’s got to be hard to be a working mom,” she continued.

Oh, we’re going to engage in small talk now, I thought to myself. Sure. That’s a thing, I guess.

It’s not that I’m not good at small talk. Or that I don’t see its function. I really do. It’s just that I often find it tedious and disingenuous. If you want to really talk, let’s talk. I’m a mental health professional. I am totally game for deep, meaningful discussions. But if you’re just trying to fill the silence with a safe clique of a topic… Well, for someone who likes real conversations, it can be tiresome to tiptoe the line of “socially appropriate” while also trying to give honest enough answers that you’re not just straight-out lying.  

For example, let’s take the comment “It’s got to be hard to be a working mom.” I don’t think she was interested in my fully honest response to that comment. My response which would have involved admitting to crying on my way to work many mornings due to the guilt over leaving my child. My response which would have involved a detailed description of how I needed to get half undressed in my office three times daily to squeeze my child’s primary source of food out of my chest. A process that often left my work clothes wet or stained for my afternoon treatment planning meetings. My honest response which certainly would have employed more than a few four-letter words of which our HR office would not approve.  

That was not the response she was looking for.

“Yeah,” I said, censoring myself. “It’s definitely not easy.”

“Is she your first child?”

Oh no… she asked the question.

I hadn’t had to answer that question much yet as the pandemic had halted pretty much all new social introductions. Everyone else at work knew about Otis. How could they not? My loss was so obvious that it was impossible to hide. I was pregnant one day. And back at work two weeks later. Everyone knew at that point. Many had even attended his funeral. Even the patients noticed. But that’s a story for another day…

I had told myself that I was always going to answer those types of questions honestly. It felt like if I didn’t include Otis, then I was ignoring him. Pretending like he never existed. That was unacceptable to me. I couldn’t disrespect him that.

“Well actually, no. Linara’s my second. I had a baby boy last February. But he died short after he was born.”

Her face turned as white as her mask.

“Oh my god. Oh. My. God.” I think I broke her.

See, this is my problem with small talk. She had considered this a safe question to ask. It never occurred to her that my answer would be along these lines.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Oh, the obligatory apology for something that she had nothing to do with. Another social construct that I completely understand but wish did not exist. Honestly, I would rather the phrase be “I have empathy for you.” At least then it would be more comfortable for me to respond with “thank you.” But “I’m sorry” always makes me feel like I should say “It’s not your fault.” Of I don’t say that. But I maintain that it’s an awkward phrase.

“It’s ok.” Obviously, Otis dying was not ok. But I could tell from how she was looking at me that she was horrified that she had brought up this uncomfortable topic. I was trying to tell her that it was ok that she had asked. It’s not like her question had suddenly reminded me I had a dead son. It was already something of which I was well aware.  

“No. No. I’m so sorry I asked.” She was so uncomfortable. “I guess I just learned an important lesson, though.”

I was intrigued. I always like teaching important lessons.

“You never know what someone’s story is. I’m NEVER going to ask questions like that again.”

Turns out I had taught something. But it was the wrong something.  

“Wait. No. That’s what you’re taking away from this? That’s the wrong less.” I looked her right in the unflattering glasses.

“What do you mean?” She was confused.

She was not only new to my hospital but newer to social work in general. As social workers, we are taught to be culturally aware and trauma-sensitive. But I’ve found over the years that sometimes newer social workers think the best way to be aware and sensitive is through avoidance. It’s not. It’s actually often the opposite.  

“Don’t stop asking the questions,” I told her. “Just be genuinely interested in, and prepared for, the response. People will tell you what they want you to know.”

Still to this day, she is the only person who has ever said aloud that she was not going to ask “How many kids do you have?” or “Is this your first baby?” again. But I’ve gotten the sense from others that they’ve had similar thoughts. In those cases, I always make sure to explain that I’m not offended by their question and that it’s ok that they asked it.

As COVID restrictions started to lift and novel social interactions were no longer reserved for the occasional new coworker, I started to notice that complete and utter strangers seemed to be obsessed with the number of kids I have. Linara and I would be walking in the grocery store, taking a stroll in the park, or eating at a local restaurant, and completely unfamiliar voices would be asking if she was my first or only child.

At first, I would always tell these people about Otis as I had originally told myself I was going to do. But the problem was, these were not new coworkers, friends, or in any other way people who I’d have more than fleeting interactions with. I’d tell them about my dead son, they’d say “I’m so sorry,” and then they’d walk away. The conversation rarely went much longer than a few seconds. I didn’t usually get to confirm that they had learned the correct lesson from our interaction.

So eventually I decided, that for these transient relationships, I would adhere to the traditional expectation of small talk, and not mention my dead son. It wasn’t that I was ignoring Otis. Or be disrespectful to him. It was more that I wanted to use his memory responsibly. If I didn’t have time and energy to have a meaningful conversation around it, then what was the point? I certainly didn’t want to inadvertently teach people to stop engaging with each other. Plus, I know he existed. I don’t need strangers to validate that for me.

But for any relationship that I feel could continue past a momentary acknowledgment of each other’s existence, I give my real answer. These are the mutual friends I get introduced to at parties, the other parents at Linara’s school, and of course, the new coworkers. These are the people who could conceivably ask about my family’s well-being in the future. Be invited to my house and see our vast array of Otis pictures. Become my friends on Facebook and read my posts every February.

When building new relationships, I allow people to see a very honest, very vulnerable part of me. If I don’t acknowledge Otis, well then, I might as well not even give you my real name. But if I do answer these questions honestly, then it means I am inviting into my world. Not to make you uncomfortable. Not to get your empathy. But because I see value in our relationship.

This is my approach to answering these questions following the loss of my son. It doesn’t mean it’s the right one. It’s just the one I’ve landed on. And it works well for me. I’d love to hear about other people’s answers following their loss.

KEYWORDS: pregnancy loss, miscarriage, stillbirth, infant loss, grief therapy