It happened again today.
'How many children do you have?'
An innocent question. A thoughtful, interested question. A question to put you at your ease: who doesn’t like to talk about their children?
And yet I stumble.
I know how many children I had. I know how many I bore, birthed, bathed, fed, carried in my arms and hold in my heart. Three, if that was the question?
I stumble.
I know the answer they want: 'I have two beautiful, lively girls. They are five and nine. The big one is like me in looks and temperament, the little one like her Daddy. Oh yes, they keep us busy, haha!' And the conversation moves on. Two. Was that the question? That answer is betrayal.
I stumble because language is inadequate. 'Are you married?' 'I’m a widow.' 'Your parents?' 'I’m an orphan.' There is no English word for a parent who has buried a child, or a child who has lost a sibling. No word for the answer I want to give.
So I stumble through a clumsy reply. 'I have, I had, three... two girls, and a boy... my wee boy died.' I don’t say it for sympathy. I don’t mean to make them sad. I say it because he was my child, is my child, will always be my child. I say it because he deserves to be acknowledged. He deserves to be celebrated.
And then of course they ask, 'What happened?' They envisage a car crash, childhood cancer, something sudden, unexpected, tragic; every parent’s nightmare.
'It’s okay,' I say. 'He was disabled, he was "life-limited". It was expected, although not scheduled. We are so lucky. We had seven wonderful years.' Seven years longer than I dared dream; seven years that passed in a flash.
They said he would die at birth. He was eager to see us.
They said he would be a burden. He lightened my every day.
They said he would change our lives. In ways I could not have imagined.
They said, 'Think of his sisters.' They were his greatest friends and advocates, and he was theirs.
They said, 'He will never take a first step, never say a first word, he will never... he will never... ' We celebrated his first smile, his first wave, his first Nativity play, his first day at school, his investiture at Beavers. He was adept at communicating his likes and dislikes and he was a champion hugger.
For seven years he was my teacher and guide, my motivation and inspiration, my calm retreat and my safe harbour. He showed me beauty in the simplest things: sunshine through leaves, rain on the roof, the thump of a base drum and the jingle of a tambourine. He opened my eyes to intolerance, my mind to injustice and my heart to love. He taught me to stand up for equality, to share the things I love most, to dream for a better future. He showed me what matters and he showed me who I am. In all my years at school I never learned so much as in my seven years as Benjamin’s mum.
I am still Benjamin’s mum and I always will be. I celebrate every one of those seven bonus years. I celebrate all that he was and all that he made me.
It happened again today: 'How many children do you have?' 'I have three children, and I celebrate them all.'
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