Do you have kids?

As times wears on, the pain of losing Isla doesn't seem to fade. It seems at least once a week I'm in a position where I'm asked if I have children or an indirect question or statement comes up that reminds me just how rare my experience is. I know my parents are asked about grandkids all the time, and they never know quite how to answer. It's usually so unexpected. I stepped out of the shower at the yoga studio and another patron commented how the shower was her favorite part of working out, because it was more peaceful that it was taking a shower at home. I thought of how Bumblebee sometimes sticks her head around the curtain and laps at the water while I'm in the shower and sort of chuckled in agreement, and she asked me how many little ones I had. Or when I went to get a massage and described the pain in my shoulder, and the therapist told me it was probably from carting around a toddler--she had seen where I mentioned a C-section surgery a year and a half before in my paperwork. Or the time when we were discussing the merits of fitting a future car seat into Dan's new car at the dealership, when the salesman asked us how old our kid was, and pointed out that the car seat was only temporary until it was grown out of. Even the most innocuous questions--a friend about to have a baby recently asked which brand of diapers I preferred. I appreciated her acknowledging my role as a mom by asking, but when I thought about it, I never got the chance to consider something as mundane as a brand of diaper. All of Isla's diapers were outfitted by the hospital; I don't think we ever purchased any.

One of our friends has a boy that was born a month before Isla, and it's strange to imagine her running around and making baby-talk the way he does. She's eternally a baby in my mind, and I have difficulty trying to visualize her growing up. 

I like to think of these occurrences as a chance to talk about her and remember her, but it often feels very uncomfortable bringing up the fact that she died to strangers, and I usually dodge the question. I think people worry about "reminding" me of her death, as if I had temporarily forgotten and they just ripped open a healing scar. That's not the case; rather, these instances remind me just how rare it is to lose a child, and just how isolating the experience can be. When I get upset about losing her, it feels almost selfish, because what I’m lamenting is my own loss. She’s fine…bouncing in space somewhere, painless and probably raising hell. I miss her, I miss the pieces of me that she brought out, and I miss seeing Dan fuss over and comfort her.

So I haven't yet come up with a good answer to this kids question. I'd love to have a couple snarky remarks that I could draw upon without totally alienating the well-intentioned asker.