During a recent gathering on Mother’s Day, my husband, our two children, and I crossed paths with a family of four kids. My youngest, 8-year-old Liam, paused to observe them wistfully and then turned to me, saying softly, “That could have been our family.”
As a wave of emotion washed over me, I pulled him close and kissed his head. I understood his sentiment, but I struggled to find the right words. He doesn’t fully grasp that our family wasn’t meant to have four children—at least not in the way he imagines. In his eyes, there are two siblings missing from our lives. They represent the pregnancies I lost.
Liam stumbled upon the concept of these “missing kids” unexpectedly. My mother, a passionate genealogist, was showcasing our family tree when Liam and his sister noticed two additional “leaves” stemming from my branch. They read the notations regarding the two pregnancies I had lost.
My mother felt terrible about this revelation and explained to them that after my daughter, Sophia, was born, I had two pregnancies that ended in miscarriage before Liam was born. She gently informed them that these losses made Mommy and Daddy sad, which is why we hadn’t spoken about them before.
Even though it has been a decade since I experienced those losses, the sorrow still lingers. I have learned to live with it, and while the initial heaviness has lessened, the grief occasionally surfaces unexpectedly. I miss those two babies deeply.
The first miscarriage occurred during my first trimester. The anticipation of having a second child filled our hearts with joy after waiting for so long. We had dreams and plans and even discussed names. But during a routine check-up, my doctor couldn’t detect a heartbeat, and I broke down in tears. My body held on tightly, but the baby had already passed away.
The second loss happened early in the second trimester. After the first miscarriage, we were cautious about getting too attached, but it was nearly impossible not to. Hearing the heartbeat at our 9-week appointment filled us with hope, yet during the following visit, the absence of the heartbeat shattered that hope again. My body, like my heart, still clung to that little life, but we later discovered it was another boy we lost.
I haven’t shared the specifics with my children; they don’t need to know them just yet. For now, all they understand is that there are two children we never got to meet.
This reality weighs heavily on Liam. He frequently points out families with four children, mentioning how we could have been similar. He often asks if I plan to have another baby, offering to share his room for a brother or his sister’s for a girl. It’s a sweet, innocent wish, and I simply hug him tightly, saying, “Our family is perfect just the way it is.”
Navigating these emotions is complex. While I mourn the lost pregnancies, I also grapple with guilt—if those pregnancies had progressed, Liam wouldn’t be here. This sweet boy has become a focal point of my life, and the cycle of grief and guilt is relentless.
When the weight of these feelings becomes overwhelming, I imagine that both pregnancies were destined to become Liam. I envision that he wanted to join our family so much that he fought to be here, finally arriving in the right circumstances.
Liam continues to wish for those two missing siblings, but I reassure him that our family is complete as it stands, with two children here on earth and two angels watching over us.
For more information on pregnancy and home insemination, check out CDC’s excellent resource and explore topics related to fertility on this authoritative site. If you are considering home insemination, you can find helpful tips in our post about artificial insemination kits.
Summary
In this piece, I reflected on the emotional complexities of explaining miscarriage to children. My son, who perceives two missing siblings, reminds me of the grief I carry while also eliciting feelings of guilt for the life we didn’t have. Despite the pain, I cherish my family as it is, with hopes that those lost pregnancies are watching over us.