The Head Count

Today I went to a local children's museum for the morning. We hadn't planned on going out anywhere, as our week has seemed busy. Liam had a special week at school, four mornings because of special events, and each day after school we went somewhere new to ride bikes and explore. No babysitting clients this week, just my own two blessings, full of so much life and curiosity and amazement in the world around them. I have been absolutely relishing some time to spend with JUST my children and it has been simply devine.

But despite the joy of the past four days they were busy, and all three of us also really enjoy being lazy and having nowhere to go and no schedule to abide to. That was the morning I had planned. Laziness, maybe a walk across the street to wade in the river, throw rocks, maybe some baking. But the kids were up very, very early today, and when a friend called at 8 AM to say she had procured passes to the local museum, all three of us felt as if we'd had our share of laziness and were delighted to pack up once again for a morning out.

My friend's daughter is Aoife's age, and the two are fast friends. I was worried that Liam would feel the odd man out, but instead he jumped immediately into the role of loving caretaker, leading the two little girls around by the hand, helping them on the climbing structure, explaining to them how to use the frozen shadow room. The three of them were so adorable.

The museum was not very crowded and they were free to dash as they pleased from pretend grocery store, to ambulance, to forklift, to bubbles, and back to the store. On one of their passes, as I followed them, I heard a woman calling to her son, "Liam!" I echoed her, and she turned around, and I told her I had a Liam, too. We talked for a minute and as Aoife passed and I said something motherly to her, too, the woman asked, "How many kids do you have?" I think she had seen me with my friend's daughter, and also had perhaps confused some other kids that had been running alongside of ours as part of our group, so she asked it in the tone as if I had many children.

"Oh, just three," I said, the answer rolling off my tongue as naturally as if the third had been at the top of the climbing structure, pigtails askew, striped cotton shirt hanging over a polka dotted skirt over flowered tights. I almost looked for her, the third child, and I was so happy that in the din and the mayhem there was no opportunity to account for the three children I was laying claim to, that it was just an answer to a question with no explanation necessary.

I love these opportunities. It is so rare that I get to tell this semi-lie, not so much a lie as it is an omission of information. I love to just say the number, so that my pregnancies match up to the number I get to posess, so that the number of babies that I have held in my arms, that have stolen my hearts, and have left me breathless for years of my life all get to be included in the head count.

I still remember the first time I did this. I was at the dermatologist quite pregnant with Aoife, and the nurse who was taking my blood pressure asked if it was my first baby.
"No, my third, " I answered with ease, because that question is easy. There is never any temptation to omit the pregnancy, because they were all just as real at that stage. She asked how old my others were, and if they were boys or girls. I hesitated for only half a second, and then realized she was literally on her way out the door, and so as my heart raced, I answered her.

"A two and a half year old girl and a one and a half year old boy," I said, my breath catching in the truth I had never dared to speak. She looked surprised.

"You'll have your hands full!" she said, and I nodded and laughed, too, enjoying the action of being the mother of two young children, which was not the script I got to follow in my real life. Then she left, and I felt full, and warm, and happy, because I had just told this little almost-lie that had made my day. She was leaving and she was seeing me as the mama of a little girl and boy, and I was lying there under a paper wrap feeling as full and delighted as I hadn't in all my days of mothering.

I am careful, though, about where I throw out the three-kid-without-an-explanation number, because I don't like to feel backed into a corner when further questions ensue. I mostly only answer with a casual "three" if I know there will be no follow up. If I know I will be there for a while, or that I will see the person again, I usually answer with the, "Three, but..." answer. Because the truth is, sadly, my little Charlotte never got to be a kid. She should be a kid, and she would have been a kid, but her life was stolen from her when she was just a baby. This is why the question of how many babies I've had seems effortless to me, and almost a relief, whereas the question of how many kids I have seems more complicated.

And now, I almost look forward to the growing swell of my belly, because I know that the questions are sure to come more often, "How many is this?" And I will get to answer with honesty, that this is my fourth baby, and I will get to tell about my spirit daughter, and I will feel proud.

Speaking of the growing swell, I thought I would include this 16 week shot of myself. No, this is not a joke... this is me today. Some people, mind you, aren't showing at 16 weeks. So yes, the questions will come fast.

And then, just a few shots of daily life...

Liam on his beloved bike
Aoife and friend Julia (of Children's museum fame) nursing their babies alongside of Gina nursing 11 week old Elliott
Dad and kids roasting tofu pups over the campfire