Baby Shoes

     Even as a young girl, I knew I wanted to be a mom.  My young girl friends and I would throw elaborate tea parties in my back yard.  My parents, as my fervent Christmas wish one year, had bought me a complete children's tea set.  It consisted of a small table with folding legs, four small but tasteful chairs and a tray with a tea pot, four cups and saucers and pots for sugar and cream.  In the flush of that Christmas morning, my mother had even offered to make tea for me and my girlfriends.  I don't think that ever happened because all we were interested in was make-believe tea parties and fussing over our dolls.  To us they were our babies.  Each of us had a little baby carriage to ferry our dolls around in.  My girlfriends had girl dolls, one was a Barbie, as I remember.  The female dolls were prissy and precious with alabaster skin, long lustrous hair that could be brushed for hours, and startlingly realistic eyes that rolled back in their heads when you laid the dolls horizontal.

     Although my parents and a few other well meaning relatives had given me various dolls in my youth, the one doll that I had specifically asked for and had received was a boy doll.  Looking back on it now, I remember that his face looked like a cross between Howdy Doody and Alfred E. Newman of Mad Magazine fame.  He had reddish-brown hair, blues eyes, a smattering of big brown freckles and a lovely smile.  He came dressed in a pair of OshKosh denim overalls with a little red neckerchief around his neck.  He also had two tone brown and tan oxford shoes that actually laced up.  He was my baby boy and I loved him as much as I loved my own mother.  His name was Tom; I always referred to him as "my Tommy boy".  The girls made fun of my infatuation with my Tommy boy but I didn't care.  I knew I was practicing for the day when I would have a real live Tommy of my own.

     I didn't want him riding around in a doll carriage like my friend's girl dolls, so for my birthday the next year, I got my parents to give me a little tractor and a small plastic pony.  That way, at some tea parties my Tommy boy was a farmer, at others, he was a cowboy.  He looked equally at home on either the tractor or the pony.  I was so proud of him.  In my mind he was now developing a personality and a future.  It may seem like my parents were indulgent towards me but that would be wrong.  Once I had my Tommy boy doll and his accoutrements I was happy and content.  Looking back, I realize that I made it real easy on my parents when it was gift giving time.  Something for Tommy boy was all I wanted.  Over the several years that I was still in the doll stage, Tommy boy received a tool belt, a cowboy hat and even a little fire engine I could stuff him in, in case he wanted to be a fireman when he grew up.

     After a few years and puberty loomed over me and my girlfriends they put away their dolls and that was the end of our afternoon tea parties.  The tea set was stashed in the attic and later, quietly given to The Goodwill by my mother.  Although the girls were now more interested in make-up, training bras and boys, I never abandoned my Tom.  He sat quietly in his overalls and oxfords on a shelf next to my bed.  When the girls came over to talk about boys and short skirts, they would tease me about still having my doll next to me.  I didn't mind taking their ribbing, they would never understand the bond that Tommy and I had.  Sometimes, even into my early teens, I would pick up Tommy boy and sit him in my lap in bed.  I would tell him my troubles (sore breasts, periods, etc.) and we would talks about his hopes and dreams for the future.

     As I progressed through high school I slowly got into other things.  I joined the glee club and I had several fairly prominent rolls in school plays.  It seemed I was a natural at acting as I had had a whole life as an imaginary mother.  I even had a few boy friends.  I really enjoyed kissing and my growing breasts were no longer sore and I enjoyed the attention they got from my boy friend's roving hands.  I was ecstatic when they finally unhooked my bra and lavished their hands and lips on my breasts.  I loved nothing more than to be making out with my boyfriend while he caressed my breasts.  It gave me a tingling feeling between my legs although I wasn't going to allow these eager beavers to get to third base.  I knew how easily that could lead to trouble.

     When I got to college I finally, and quite willingly, gave up my precious virginity.  After all, this was the next step to becoming a mom.   I liked my college boyfriends well enough and I enjoyed the physical pleasure they gave me but I never really loved them.  I never felt the way I'd felt as a young girl towards my little Tommy boy.  This caused some hurt feelings as several of these boys professed their undying love for me, usually right before they orgasmed.  I had my impending motherhood to look out for and I wasn't about to get entangled with a serious boyfriend at this stage of my life.  I had gone to the student health center when I first got to college and started taking the pill so there wouldn't be any accidents.

     After I graduated, armed with my shiny new degree in accountancy, I got a job in an office.  For several years, I applied myself gamely to the world of corporate finance and enjoyed several promotions.  In my job search I looked for a company with a very generous maternity policy because I planned to use that perquisite to its fullest extent once I became pregnant.  Sometime in my mid twenties I felt that I was ready to fulfill my ultimate destiny of motherhood.  I realized that more than another boyfriend or even a husband, what I really wanted was a sperm donor.  Several of the girls in the office tried to interest me in single guys that they knew, but I didn't want anyone too close to home.  I joined a Gym across town and started trolling for my "baby daddy".  I only went in after work and sometimes on the weekends.  My workouts consisted of walking the treadmill or bouncing up and down on the elliptical machines.  I was always on the lookout for my "special guy".  I knew what I wanted; someone big and strong with an athletic build, handsome but not to the point of vanity.  After all, I was fairly good looking with a decent figure but I was no one's idea of a runway model.  To get what I wanted I needed to find someone who would be attracted enough to want to date me.  When I spotted a potential mate I would sidle up next to them and ask them to show me how to use one of weight machines.  Over a period of about a year I managed to get several of these target males to go out with me.  During these first dates I would casually inquire about their backgrounds; were they college graduates; what kind of job did they have;  did they get along well with their parents and their siblings; was there any serious illnesses in the family like cancer, alzheimer's or alcoholism.

     Finally I settled on a guy who had all the desired prerequisites.  Like Goldilocks and her porridge, my new boyfriend was not too hot and not too cold but just right.  We settled into a comfortable relationship.  Sometimes he would stay over at my place, sometimes we would end up at his.  He had a graduate degree in engineering and had a good solid job in town.  He didn't know any of my girlfriends from work.  He had been on the rowing team and the lacrosse team in college.  He was good looking; tall and well built and had a very pleasant personality.  He loved his family, was kind and generous and had a sentimental streak that I found very lovable.  I told him that I was on the pill and we could have natural sex without worrying about consequences.  When I decided that he was to be the father of my baby I quietly stopped taking the pill.

     About six months later, I didn't get my usually regular period and took a pregnancy test.  When the little strip turned blue I was over the moon with joy.  Finally the time had come to fulfill my destiny.  I was going to be a mother.  Over the next several months, before I started to show I began to withdraw from my affair with Adam.  I feigned boredom and the occasional bouts of irritability.  When Adam asked me what was wrong I told him that I didn't really feel the love towards him that he deserved.  I explained that it wasn't him; it was me.  I wished him well in the future and assured him that he would find a good woman who would give him the love that he deserved.  Poor Adam, he really was a good man but he would never know that he was to be the father of my child.  I saw to it that we parted company amicably and I went back to the single life.  But everything had changed.  My future pride and joy was slowly growing in my womb and I was thrilled beyond words.  I loved being pregnant and the changes that it brought to me.  I went through the usual period of morning sickness but I didn't mind.  I knew that it was all for a good cause.  I was going to be a mother.

     When I was far enough along, I went to a well regarded Ob/Gyn doctor.  She was warm and welcoming and had a lovely bedside manner.  She was a mother herself and confided in me the joys and occasional tribulations of having a baby and bringing up a child.  I requested an amniocentesis to screen for any prenatal problems but secretly I was more interested in the sex of my baby.  I wanted, no, I had my heart set on, having a healthy baby boy; just like my Tommy boy had been for me in my youth.  Luckily I didn't have to contend with the idea of abortion because my fetus was a male.  There were no signs of possible genetic abnormalities and later the sonograms showed a healthy and vibrant male baby was growing in my womb.  As the months went by and I got bigger, I followed all the rules.  I had already stopped drinking my occasional glass of wine.  I maintained a healthy diet.  I was thrilled every time my Tom started kicking inside of me.  I knew that he was progressing nicely towards the day of his birth.

     At first my parents were disappointed that I chose to raise the baby by myself.  In tandem, they would talk about the importance of a nuclear family and the role model that a loving mother and father would provide for a child.  In private, my mother admitted that the love had run out of their marriage long ago and she didn't see any problem with being a single mother.  After all, I had a good job with a very generous maternity leave package and she would be around to take care of the baby when I went back to work.

     Finally the big day came and my water broke.  I called my mother and told her it was time.  She rushed over in her car and drove me to the hospital.  My pre-birth routine was pretty standard for a first time mother.  Six hours of cervical dilation and a series of painful contractions.  When the big moment arrived my doctor and the maternity nurse told me to push with all my might and don't forget to breathe.  I had taken all the usual prenatal classes but there is nothing that anybody can tell you that can describe the pain of childbirth.  When Tommy's little head appeared I gave out with one last agonizing cry and my biggest squeeze and I felt my womb empty as my baby slipped out into the nurse's waiting hands.  I was filled with joy and tears of relief when I heard Tommy's first cry.  The umbilical chord was snipped and tied, the baby was sponged off and this tiny pink bundle was handed to me, swaddled in the baby blue cashmere blanket I had chosen for him.  "Congratulations, Laurie!  You have a healthy baby boy!"

     I looked down at Tommy's formless little face with his eyes closed.  He had a smattering of brown hair plastered against his tiny little head.  I gathered him to my bosom and peppered that little head with the first of what I knew would be a billion kisses to come.  As I teased a nipple into his mouth and he began to suckle I was overcome with such deep feelings of love and joy that I knew that words could never explain them.  The next day, still sore and exhausted but wildly happy, mom drove me home to start my new life with my little Tommy boy, my pride and joy and the ultimate love of my life.

     The first few months were exhausting and I felt the deep fatigue and sleep deprivation that only a new mother can know.  Luckily Tommy was a "good" baby and didn't cry much.  He stayed healthy and didn't develop any of the complications that can plague a newborn.  My days and nights consisted of holding my naked baby against my naked body; feeding him every several hours.  Then we would both grab a nap for several hours.  After a change of diapers the cycle would begin again.  I didn't mind cleaning up after him and I loved it when I would nurse him.  My breasts loved the feeling of his little toothless mouth hungrily sucking the life giving milk from me.  Occasionally my mother would come over and spell me while I was relieved of "mom duty" to grab a few hours of sleep.

     As the months went by I was grateful that the periods between nursings and poopings became longer and so did our sleep cycles.  After Tommy's eyes opened we could really start to bond.  After his vision strengthened he started to really see me.  He would gaze into my face and I would give him a big smile and talk baby talk to him.  When I started to talk and rock him gently in my lap a huge smile would light up his face and I knew that he was beginning to feel towards me what I felt towards him; a bottomless well of total rapture and unconditional love.  While I was pregnant, I had watched all the wonderful YouTube videos of laughing babies.  I loved seeing the mother's playing the little games that would make their babies squeal with joy.  Soon, Tommy boy and I were playing the same silly little games.  "I'm going to tickle you Tommy, here comes mommy's finger!"  As my forefinger slowly made its way towards his tummy I could see the anticipation welling up in his face.  With a cry of triumph I would gently poke his round little tummy and he would erupt in a spate of squealing laughter.  Neither of us seemed to ever tire of this game.  I mean, who doesn't want to make their baby laugh?

Here's one of the many pictures I took of Tommy laughing with his mother.

     After five months my mother and my doctor tactfully suggested that it was time to put Tom in his own room.  I agonized at the sound of his cries at the cruel separation from his mommy.  Eventually he resigned himself to this new arrangement.  As much as I missed having my baby next to me I was relieved to get a little more sleep.  Each morning I would awake to the sound of gurgles and other baby noises coming through the baby monitor.  I couldn't wait to got into his room.  Opening the door to his room I would coo; "Hi Tommy boy!  Mommas here.  Are you glad to see your momma again?"  At the sound of my voice he would let out with a joyful squeal.  When I came to his crib and bent over to look at my beautiful baby boy he would let out with more squeals and a huge toothless grin as mother and child were once again united.  The picture above is what he looked like every morning when he first saw me.

     Anticipating his development, I started buying the clothes he would wear when he outgrew his current stuff that mostly consisted of diapers and T-shirts, booties and mittens.  The first item was a little pair of OshKosh denim baby overalls like my doll had worn and was still wearing in its place on the shelf on the night stand next to my bed.  It had never left.  The last thing I bought him was pair of baby shoes.  They were ivory colored and made of the softest calf leather I had ever felt.  I looked forward to the day I would put those shoes on my Tommy boy, waiting for those first few halting steps before he collapsed into my waiting arms.  I put those beautiful little shoes on the shelf next to my Tommy doll and would gaze fondly at them knowing what fun Tommy and I had in store when we could walk together, hand in hand.

     Late in his seventh month, I woke up one morning and I didn't hear him on the baby monitor.  I immediately became alarmed because that was so unlike my Tom.  With a growing sense of dread I crept into his room.  Tommy boy was lying there but when I called his name there was no response.  I thought desperately to myself that he must really be sound asleep this morning.  I knew as I approached his crib that something was dreadfully wrong.  He was deathly still and I couldn't hear him breathing.  There was a horrible bluish pallor to his skin and it was cold to the touch.  I lifted up one of his arms and helplessly watched it fell back to his side, lifeless.  I must have fainted at that point because the next thing I remember was getting up off the ground and my head hurt where it must have struck the floor.  I got up and looked in the crib and nothing had changed.  I tried to administer CPR but it was no use.  My baby boy, my Tommy, the absolute light of my life was gone.

     The medical examiner met with me after the autopsy.  He had the sad rheumy eyes of a cocker spaniel which well suited him to his duties; examining corpses and explaining to friends and family how their loved one had died.  It's called Sudden Infant Death Syndrome--SIDS--for short, and medical science has yet to come up with an explanation.  For some reason, some babies who appear perfectly healthy, just pass away in their sleep.

     After the funeral I took to my bed with the PJ's Tommy was wearing when he died.  I would lie there in my bed, sobbing softly while I inhaled the last fragrance of my baby.  After a few days, at the gentle urging of my mother and my doctor, I got up and got myself dressed.  I knew that I would never give up this last bit of his clothing but I determined to sell or give away everything else that was baby oriented; his crib; his bathinette; his stroller and his bouncy seat.  After those were gone I started selling the outfits that I had bought for his future that now he would never wear.  After the other items I finally parted with the denim overalls.  All that was left of my baby's canceled future was his pair of baby shoes.

     As I sat down to write out the ad to sell his shoes I suddenly remembered something I had heard about when I was in college.  Ernest Hemingway and several other writers were sitting around drinking one day when one of them challenged the others to come up with the shortest sad story they could think of.  The group went silent as they thought.  After a few minutes Hemingway said; "I've got it."  He wrote down six words on a piece of paper and passed it around to the others.  I knew that would be the classified ad I would place.  I proceeded to write down those words, the saddest words I could imagine:

     For Sale
     Baby Shoes
     Never Worn