Which bird is mine, mama? This one?

I’m a person who loves sentimental things…a person who sits in a chair and has ink etched into my skin by way of a needle to mark a change or a transition. Tattoos mean so much to me.

I am also a person that wants to do her best raising the kids entrusted to her. I don’t want my kids to be afraid of pain, unsure what to do when loss hits us, or uncomfortable talking about grief.

My favorite tattoo is of swallows. They represent the kids that will forever reside in my heart. Two of them are solid black, meant for Sage and Ira. The other five are just the outline — meant for two babies my body miscarried, two girls I fostered for over a year, and a baby girl whose adoption to us was disrupted. Each life as valuable as the next, all beloved.

‘Which bird is mine, mama? This one?’ My boys often ask, pointing to one of the two black birds. They go through each bird, naming their sisters’ birds, asking about the other two birds that represent the babies in my belly that never made it but not quite sure.

The other night before bed, Ira — one of my 3-year-olds — started running his pudgy little fingers along my tattoo. ‘Is this one mine, mom?’ and then his brother Sage — my other 3-year-old — hopped over to get in on the action. ‘What about mine?’

‘The two black birds are yours. Sage, yours is the first one because you came first. Ira, yours is the second one.’

Smiling, they kept rubbing their fingers along each bird, ‘And this one is Sissy A’s? And Sissy I’s?’ They ask as if we haven’t gone over this weekly for the last nine months. ‘Yep, I nod.’

‘And this is Sissy AB’s, right mom?’

‘Sure is.’

Then Ira asks, ‘But mom, who are these birds?,’ while pointing to the first outlined bird and the last.

‘Those are for the babies in my tummy that died.’ It wasn’t the first time I’ve said it, but it was the first time they seemed to try and grasp that.

‘They died? Why?’ Ira asked, clearly concerned. ‘What happened? Where did they go?’

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