Six. Three. Two. Four.

Kids are taking a bath. And I keep on looking at them, imagining three in the tub, instead of two.

I only recently started visualizing what life was going to be like with three. Managing expectations has unfortunately been our normal. We've worn those flesh-colored bandaids for years.

When you see a family with two children, especially one of each gender, there's an apparent balance of achievement. The all-American dream. Simple, typical.

Except you have no idea of how they actually got there.

In our case, getting pregnant was the easy part. Staying pregnant rarely happened. After two early miscarriages, we were blessed with Jonah. We had another early miscarriage before Rachel joined us. And despite the first trimester bleeding I had with every single one of my pregnancies, Sarah was my sixth pregnancy. My third baby. And my fourth loss.

Having two healthy, vibrant children is a great way of hiding fertility problems. While I mourned after every miscarriage, nothing compares to Sarah.

She kicked me every night and would clearly complain when I chewed ice. I could feel her roll from one side of my belly to the other, feet above my ribs. There was a week or two where I could barely breathe enough to walk into the kitchen.

Sarah would respond to the kids' voices - and their screams and cries. At one point we were all in the recliner at once, my arms around Rachel and Jonah, with Sarah firmly nestled in the middle, each one having their own separate tantrum.

Sarah may have never smelled the crisp, autumn air of upstate NY or seen the brilliant red leaves on our maple tree, but she was very real to me.