How much is too much information?

In realizing how differently we grieve, I'm also finding that my husband and I handle personal questions from strangers very differently.

It's not so bad in the city where we've moved, where loads of families have more than two children (some as many as eight or nine or 10 even - not blended families - just families). In North Vancouver I was constantly under scrutiny of children-limiting opinions. It was crazy how often other people felt the need to tell me that, "two children are normal" and that I must be completely insane or - it was implied pretty obviously - mentally deficient and completely irresponsible for having more than two. I had many rude people tell me, in front of the children (who were behaving on these occasions - these strangers weren't trying to be funny as the kids had tantrums or something), that I needed lessons in birth control. One nasty woman left me speechless when she said scathingly, "Whatever happened to the Pill?" as she minced past me as I pushed the double stroller flanked by my older boys on either side.

I have had some interesting moments pointedly answering these people who wanted to feel somehow superior. One older gent will likely never again try this on another mother after I launched into a counter-attack with, "Our country has a negative birth rate. You should be *thanking* me. Which one shouldn't I have? Every one of these children is wanted and loved and supported through our own hard work. Who do you think is going to take care of you when you're even more elderly?" He couldn't get away fast enough.

Well, as angry and unhappy as those questions left me then, after losing George these comments on family size cut me to the bone. I dissolved into tears the first time someone said incredulously, "Are those four all yours?" I sobbed and said, "Yes, and we just lost a baby. We should have five." That man practically took off running!

When we moved out here to the Fraser Valley, we went to a festival one Saturday. At an information booth on playgroups and things, the counsellor looked at our three boys and little girl and said, "Aaaah. You kept trying until you got a girl." My heart started to pound, I started to shake, and she kept going, "So you're done now that you have the girl?" I couldn't speak. And my husband, a polite man of British background, said simply, "Yes."

I burst into tears. I felt so wretched. She looked at me and my oldest son said, "Actually there are five of us. Me and my brothers, my sister, and our baby George just died."

I nodded and explained that we'd lost him during my labour. She felt dreadful of course and piled me up with free giveaway granola bars, fruit leather, water bottles, and even pulled out fugsicles for the kids.

Now, to my womanly mind, I was being honest. I couldn't handle not acknowledging our other child. It devastated me in a way I can't articulate. I mean, logically I know that this woman doesn't need to know we've just had this tragedy. And yet, well, I couldn't hide it. I can't be polite and smile as I move away.

My husband, who I know understands me and my emotional side, said gently but with the practicality of probably every y-chromosome in history, "Karen, that poor woman didn't need that dumped on her. Just tell people the answer they want to hear."

But I can't. I just can't. I feel almost terrified of people asking how many children we have, even in conversation with mothers at the park. To say only four seems wrong to me. How can I not count my George? To say five is weird, too, because there are only four with me.

Thank God for other mothers. My friend Ellie has five boys and has lost seven babies. I emailed her in the wee hours one July morning and asked how she handles this question. She says, "I'm raising five boys and we have seven babies waiting for us in heaven." She said usually people are so surprised by the five boys that they don't even comment on her babyloss.

Bernadette, who runs Morning Light Ministry, shared with me her answer. She gave birth to a stillborn daughter and so responds to queries about family size by saying, "We have x number of living children." If people want more detail, they can ask. If they don't, she still feels she has honoured the memory of her late baby.

It feels right to me not to give the easy answer without mentioning the dead baby. And so I say now that we are raising four children and have one waiting for us in heaven. If anyone says, "You've got your hands full!" and it seems at all snide, I figure they've asked for it and respond, "Yes, but not full enough. Our infant son died at birth in May."

Maybe it's mean. But I'm getting used to this new lingo of grief. And I've always been irritated by the negativity and judgment.