The little things

It’s funny how the little things start to matter. When I was younger, it was the milestones–the mountains not the moleholes–that I took notice of, that seemed to carry weight or to change lives or perspectives. Graduations. Marriages. Births. Deaths. But the older I get, the more the little things interrupt me, announce themselves, and just plain take my breath away. These are GOOD little things, I might add. Yesterday, I noticed a particular pine tree of no particular caliber, in no particularly important place. It stood next to an office building I was walking by. It was shimmering and silver and each long needle seemed to glint. The first explanation that came to mind was raindrops, but–as I am in the desert, and it hasn’t rained here for months–that didn’t make sense. Then I realized that I was seeing the sun reflected off of sap, that each needle was coated with the sticky stuff, and, at that particular moment, each one was glowing like amber. Pretty cool.

A few weeks after we decided to adopt a daughter from China, I found myself in downtown Phoenix, walking by a kid’s clothing store. I think it was called This Little Piggie. I did something then that I have never done before. I went in and bought my first baby clothes. I realize this admission will not sound monumental to anyone who hasn’t experienced infertility, but, for those who have and who have subsequently become pregnant or have decided to adopt, it’s a life-changing experience. What you might otherwise think of as casual, pedestrian minutes spent in a shop picking out a few pink outfits, sizes 6-12 months, become unforgettable. I am suddenly Someone New. I am The One who gets to shop for onesies. I have legitimacy as I fondle the strollers on display. If I want to take that little jacket home, embroidered on the back with butterflies, all I have to do is pay for it at the cash register. I no longer have to eye the clothing from afar, feeling that I have no right to look or touch because I am childfree. Not anymore. I am adopting. I am a parent-to-be. And this little thing, this little pink cotton jersey jacket, has brought me joy. Indescribable joy.

I realize then that I will probably never take shopping for children’s clothing for granted, even when I am harried and frazzled and the kid is screaming and the dog is barking from all the way across the parking lot in the car and I have some unknown substance spilled down my midsection. I will always revel in the simple act of this type of purchase.

For years it felt as if the childed world got to do things that I did not. Nurseries and midwives and baby showers and birth announcements and macaroni drawings brought home from preschool. They were different than me. They knew things about unconditional love and pride and fear and memory that I didn’t. They were special.

Now I am different, special, in a way that the easily-childed world is not. I have a knowledge that they missed because their fertility was a birthright. I know that while the little pink jacket might have a pricetag of $30, it would have cost much more than money to have to walk away from it. And, so, the little pink embroidered jacket came home with me, and it did not go in a dresser drawer or in a closet or stay in its bag. I kept it out on the kitchen counter where I could see it as I walked by and touch it for days and days.