How many kids do you have?

It seems like the most basic of questions. For the most part, it is. Except when it isn't. The obvious answer is, "I have two children." I do have two children. Although, in my heart (sometimes out loud), I call them "my breathers". Because the real answer to this straightforward question is, I am the mother of three beautiful children.

I gave birth to my first child, Sonny Andrew, on June 26, 2009. He would be eleven years old now. From the moment I held him, I knew him. I am Mom. He is my son. I will always be Sonny's Mom. I will always know him. What he looks like, how his skin feels on my skin, those first magnificent moments when my baby boy was put in my arms. I will always know him. But Sonny would never really know me the way I wanted.

My child, not knowing my touch and all that went with that, is one of the many things I mourn when those moments of missing him creep up on me. There is quite a long list of losses. The loss of innocence. Blissful cluelessness of deciding to have a child. The joyful yet disturbing sensation of being an alien condominium while your child grows inside of you. Feeling joy and not worry when you see a pregnant belly. It goes on and on. I know this one may seem insignificant, but it still gets me; when I see friends on social media, write a happy birthday message with some version of "to the one that made me a mom." That little benign moment leaves me feeling robbed. This throw-away comment is when I think of all of us - Sonny, Amelia, Sullivan, their dad, myself, and how we were all cheated. Here comes the grief wave feeling that someone is missing.

The pain of losing Sonny Drew, as I like to call him, doesn't consume me anymore the way it did at first. The miracle of having Amelia and Sullivan and all the wonderful chaos that goes with them helped me to heal. Now I cope with losing Sonny by firmly believing being Sonny's mommy saved my life. I also choose to believe that his soul has given birth to my "breathers," his sister and brother, and his spirit continue in them and me. I know that he is with me. I feel him all the time. I know when I lost my dad a little more than eight years later, their souls united. I chose to think of my best friend from childhood that passed when we were barely nineteen, always dreaming of the children she wanted, now has what she needs. I give life to him every day by the way I love, grow, protect, and teach his siblings. I build his legacy by talking about him when as women and mamas, we sit around telling tales of pregnancy and birth with joy, laughter, and exhaustion, just like I would do if he were here—not caring if others feel uncomfortable. Just because I can't hold him in my arms anymore doesn't erase my experience of being his mother.

See, that is what I find so painful when it comes to having a stillbirth. The idea that we don't openly talk about our time with our babies is tragic to me. By shrouding our experience in secrecy, we increase the shame and guilt women carry with them after the loss. Why is that? Is it because this loss makes others uneasy? Or because the idea of losing a child is so horrific, people don't want to talk about it for fear they may "catch" it? Or because women assume that getting pregnant and having a baby will happen almost without thinking about it? I mean, we do spend a large portion of our lives trying not to get pregnant until the moment we want it. It would never cross our minds that we would ever leave the hospital without our baby in our arms.

Here is the staggering truth. Approximately one in every one hundred and sixty births end in the loss of a child in the United States each year, as reported by the CDC. Did you catch that? That means that 24,000 babies are stillborn each year! I find these numbers to be flabbergasting. The United States' statistics on infant loss are some of the highest in the world amongst countries at the same level of wealth. This loss is more significant for women of color and those living in communities of lower-income status. Not only should these numbers shock and disgust you, but they should also clearly be more readily known. As a nation, we should be doing EVERYTHING in our power to change this. It is beyond my realm of understanding that having a stillborn is something shrouded in secrecy and shame. That as women, we aren't screaming at the top of our lungs to change this.

LET'S TALK ABOUT IT.

It takes about a million things to go right in pregnancy to get to a healthy finish line. Only the smallest thing going wrong can result in that pregnancy having a catastrophic end. Yet we don't give women the support and care that they need. No support is offered as we try to get pregnant. We don't properly care for women as they carry their babies. Even worse, we expect women to soldier on doing the millions of things on our usual plates that society demands. Our society puts pressure on all mothers to look good and bounce back, work, parent, cook, clean, stay engaged with our community, as if building a life inside of us is easy. G-D forbid it doesn't go as planned; we are allowed a mourning period. Yes. But that time has an expiration date undefined but loudly felt by the parents that the loss affects. No credence is paid to either parent as to how this loss changed them, or how much time they may need. Forget about the long term psychological and physical effects that one may feel. It is almost as if people feel like you didn't know that baby, so why should one carry that loss? Just make a new baby.

I don't want to speak for all women and men on this. We all experience loss differently. I can tell you what is lost as the parent of a stillborn is blind hope. I think this feeling is real for families who have to walk the infertility path as well. For those who lose children after giving birth, well, those families are of another world to me. Those Mamas and families should be revered every day for simply getting out of bed. We mourn that nothing comes with naïve hope and joy ever again after the loss of a child. You know that everything can be in your arms and heart growing and thriving, and almost without warning, the rug is ripped out from under you and that sometimes there is not a damn thing you can do about it. There is life one day, hour, or even minute. Then suddenly it is gone. Poof.

The hardest part of it for me was the idea that I failed my partner and my child. My body had failed all three of us by not providing a healthy space for Sonny to grow. How could my body not do what I was asking of it? It always had. I felt like I didn't pay close enough attention. I felt like I didn't yell loud enough when I felt that something was off. Why didn't the doctors listen? Was I not clear? Why did I not know more? I read all the books. Why didn't they know more? I can still hear myself crying over and over, "I didn't even eat the bad cheese!"

But it isn't about the cheese. It is about the care we give to all women in this country or lack thereof. All women are expected to be caretakers, whether they are moms to humans, animals or make the brave choice to come out and say no to either of those things. When we decide to become mommies, we buy a book or google pregnancy, listen to those around us regal us with their own stories. We get a lot of advice. What we don't provide women is air to breathe. We don't offer space to worry about what this woman's life will feel like as she changes her entire identity to become Mom. To be exhausted. To be scared. To say, "I have NO IDEA what I am doing here." We don't respond loud enough with," NONE of us do! Oh, and by the way, you won't know what you're doing once that baby is out, either. There is a steady amount of judgment and very little support and unity. It breaks my heart.

Sonny is the genesis of Nourished Families. His birth was the first spark of this project. A place for women to share and feel support. A no-judgment zone that feels like a warm blanket of love and support mixed in with my madness. All of this hopefully making new mamas and all women feel seen.

As I talked about my firstborn son, I realized how many women had experienced the same thing. I hate that I have three women in my tribe that have experienced this loss. I never wanted someone I love to have this kind of hurt. Their stories may be slightly different, but they all end with someone handing them the purple box. (If you know you know that is the box a family gets after a stillbirth.) A gloriously strong and magnificent woman walked me through my devastation, giving her son life. I had the heartbreakingly beautiful gift of holding the hands of two remarkable women who allowed me to stand with them as they found the armor they needed to survive their individual losses.

Here's the secret that no one tells you: this epic loss does make you stronger than you knew possible. That is not the good part. That is the bullshit. Living with loss makes your glasses a little rosier. It is not that you don't lose your mind on the kids that you do have anymore. It is that you have experienced inside you the actual circle of life. You have given life and lost it. Dreamed of an entire life and laid it to rest. All of this is glorious, painful, and invigorating.

So, if you are reading and it speaks to you, I see you. Thank you for seeing me. Say your baby's name loud and proud. The world should know that name.

If you haven't held the purple box in your arms, but you know or come across someone who has, ask them if they would open it and share it with you. Ask them to tell you about their child. What they cravings they had during that pregnancy. Were they different than others? The same? Ask what color their baby's hair was? Eyes? Let that Mom tell you her baby's stats. She knows them. What is their baby's birthday? Ask them to share their light. Let's talk about it in love, not loss.

Let's just talk.