Her slipper

Cassi B gave birth to her baby boy a month before my sweet little girl was born. There were a lot of babies being born at that point, to the tune of 5 per month. Those young military Mormons sure do know how to turn out babies. Many of us mothers sort of got lost in the shuffle of taking meals hither and yon, gifts of baby blankets, sleep deprivation, and absence from church while we waited out RSV season before taking our babies out in public.

Cassi and her husband, Noel, had gone through quite a bit to find each other. She brought five children from a previous marriage that ended in ashes and bitter pain. I don't know his history. This was their first baby together and they talked about her pregnancy with dreamy half smiles and wonder. They're still newly-weds of less than 2 years.

I saw Cassi after I started going back to church myself but never did see their baby boy. I asked her once how he was doing. "He has heart problems and hasn't left the hospital yet. He's scheduled for surgery soon." My heart ached for this mother who had already endured so much but kept a serious but tender countenance. I cradled my own sweet, perfectly formed child and silently grieved and feared for her.

The months flew by and Frieda started eating solids, scooting like a remote controlled zippy car (except the Manufacturer forgot to give us her remote control), making raspberries, and turning her head and smiling when we called her name. I saw Cassi again about a month ago, still without her child. My heart sank as I thought about what her baby would be doing, at a month older. I wondered if he were somewhere in a hospital, perhaps sedated, perhaps recovering from his latest procedure. Maybe he was home with his father until he was strong enough to come out of the house... but there was Noel, breaking up a quiet squabble and holding one of the younger children he had so bravely and so lovingly come to call his own.

Friend C had been (and I presume, still is) on a knitting rampage over the past few months. Not a week went by that didn't produce at least one project from her flying fingers and Freida has been the lucky recipient of some of the fruits of her industry. She loves to chew on her little pink, garter-stitch slippers with the pink, satiny laces. I've had to put the laces in a square knot to keep them on her feet but her determination often means that they get kicked off anyway. The laces always end up in her eager maw, one end hanging out as her glowing eyes cheerfully declare victory over the humble square knot and survey her domain with her bad self, her mouth working furiously on the jumble of ribbon and new teeth.

We all went to the park one day, taking a little friend with us. There, playing a lively game of tag, was the B family. I admired how every member of the family, including the oldest boy, played tag, debated the rules, called out "no tag backs!", and ran about having a great time. I said hi to Cassi who explained that they were trying to get them all worn out before she had to go to work that evening for her 12 hour shift as a nurse. We chatted and laughed and smiled when the older kids slowed up their running a bit for the little kids, pushed each other on the swing, and found clever ways to avoid being caught. Then someone rushed over to tag Cassi and she ran away, laughing with a real sparkle in her eye. Neither of us even mentioned her absent baby, and I wondered again.

The little friend we took to the park is a marvelous little guy and he and my son occasionally butt heads. I broke up a couple of arguments but they mostly played very nicely together. Frieda was wearing down from the outing and I was trying to keep those slippers on her feet as she kicked her legs and hung out of her stroller as far as she could in an odd attempt to capture that elusive and tasty footwear. I finally relented and gave her a footless slipper to keep her happy and buy time for everyone else who wanted to stay longer. I then heard another disagreement across the park and ran over to see what the issue was. I heard Freida yelling in chagrin as her hard-won prize fell to the ground, right where she could see it. I ignored her while I sorted out the boys and, as I turned back to take care of the baby, saw Noel quickly and quietly pick up her slipper and offer it to her. She gleefully took it and gnawed away with vigor. He paused, stroked her hair, and gazed at her bright, happy face. I stood transfixed. Without looking at me, he ran to his van where his family waited for him so they could go home and have a family siesta. I continued standing, watching Freida and wondering, and somehow felt tears in my throat.

Just this past Sunday we had a funny exercise in class where we all had to stand up and say one need that we had. There were some interesting ones ("spring form pan", "husband", "play dates for my kids") and some borderline sappy ones ("please give me missionary opportunities!", "please, let me come clean your house for free", or "I'm so blessed by God and don't need a thing") so I bent over my knitting and tuned out the exercise (mine was "hey, my name is Annie and I'm moving soon. So, any of that helping with move stuff is great.") until I heard Cassi's voice. She was sitting in the front row with her beautiful daughter who was having a hard time in nursery that day. She stood and the room fell silent. She introduced herself and said "I would just like more service opportunities to help give back some of the outpouring of love we experienced when our son passed away. Thank you."

I recalled Noel and the look on his face. And then I realized that, for that brief moment, Frieda wasn't just my baby. That moment that I didn't choose beforehand, that I didn't engineer in the slightest, was a moment for my child to mean something extraordinary to someone else. And though I mourned for those parents who mourned, I'm so grateful that Frieda would share her babyness with someone who sorely needed to touch that, however briefly.