The hardest question I am asked

Is

How many children do you have?

I am a mummy of five children

There is no question in my mind

Tilda is as much my child

As my living children

But other people find that really hard to understand

Especially when they see my four children standing with me

One thing that is SO important to me

Is that my four living children know and understand that they are five

A sibling set of five

One brother and four sisters

I always want them to include Tilda when talking about their siblings

And because that is how it has always been

They always do

And it is not strange for them

It is not awkward for them

Though it is for many people that they talk to

People have even corrected them in the past

But they have stood their ground

And explained that they have a sister in the sky

I am so proud of my children

They are and always will be five

On Saturday

My wonderful mother in law

Sent a poem to me

That perfectly expresses how the children and I feel

About Tilda

She is and always will be one of us

That is our normal

However strange it may seem to others

However awkward it may make others feel

And William Wordsworth

Wrote a perfect poem

To explain exactly how it is

Exactly how we feel

Why we are five

His poem

Is called

We Are Seven

And I could not love it more

We Are Seven
By William Wordsworth

A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”