I’d never realised it, but I have a rainbow baby. I’d never heard the term before Carrie Johnson, the prime minister’s wife, used it this week in announcing that she was expecting a baby, having previously suffered a miscarriage.

A rainbow baby, it turns out, is the baby that comes after pregnancy loss, whether miscarriage or — as in my case — stillbirth. A rainbow baby pregnancy is fraught with anxiety. The blithe anticipation that I’d taken for granted in my first two pregnancies (right up until my second baby inexplicably stopped moving at 39 weeks’ gestation) was replaced by nervous agitation and an expectation that things could easily go wrong again — not just with pregnancy, but in every area of life. There was no shopping for baby clothes. Even picking names felt like tempting fate.

Like Carrie Johnson, I already had a child. She gave me reason to persevere every day. I had a wonderful obstetrician too, who assured my child (and me) that he took complete responsibility for the health of her mum and sibling — which did a lot to help with the burden of guilt and responsibility that comes with pregnancy loss.

Then a yoga teacher advised me to spend time every day with my legs up against a wall, elevated over the bump. This would aid blood flow to the placenta, she said, “like giving your baby a good dinner”. This technique never failed to make the baby move, calmed me considerably, and gave me time to concentrate on enjoying the pregnancy -— accepting that it might be all I would get.

My parents’ rabbi’s wife helped too, when she enquired when — please God — would the baby be born. The respectful way that she acknowledged that not all pregnancies end happily, that we are all in the hands of God — was a much better approach than all those friends and even health professionals who assured me that everything would be fine this time, and ignored my experience.

I also found a sisterhood out there of women who had suffered similar losses. My neighbour encouraged me to try again — she had six miscarriages before her son was born. Later on I supported one of my best friends when her baby died after only a few days of life. Sadly, not everyone is able to have a rainbow baby. Some parents rebuild their lives after loss without the blessing of another child. Their loss is often invisible, their burden is the heaviest.

In some ways, all Jewish babies post-Holocaust are rainbow babies. Born after genocide, we all carry the weight of parental fear, however suppressed it may be.

My rainbow baby is 21 now, six foot tall and — keinehora — thriving. He has always loved life and strives to make the most of it. I try to stifle my instinct to coddle him, to keep him from all harm. Because what I learned when I lost his brother is that life is infinitely precious — and needs to be lived.