A Special Lady

By Joan Clayton

I never went to bed in my life and I never ate a meal in my life without saying a prayer. I know my prayers have been answered thousands of times, and I know that I never said a prayer in my life without something good coming of it.
~Jack Dempsey

I rushed out of the feed store, eager to get home, when I heard her. I turned to see a darling little filly in a small fenced-in area in the parking lot. It seemed cruel to keep this beautiful animal penned up in a four-by-nine stall. Drawn by her beauty, I walked over to her. Her soft warm nuzzle against my bare arm that hot summer day almost made me cry.

"Hi! You're a pretty lady!" I rubbed her nose and she immediately responded with a series of neighs that seemed to say, "Buy me."

I hurried home and tried to go about my business as usual, but I kept hearing an echo in my thoughts. "Love me."

I had recently begun to seek a closer walk with God. I had a yearning in my heart to know God in a deeper way. My husband, Emmitt, did not understand my new commitment and worried I'd go "overboard with religion."

"Dear Lord," I prayed, "please don't let me turn Emmitt away from You. Draw him toward You. More than anything in the world, I want him to love You with all his heart."

I took Emmitt to see the horse, which I already called Lady in my thoughts. Emmitt had a very tender spot for animals, especially horses, and we bought her on the spot!

Since we lived at the edge of town and had an acre of backyard, we thought caring for her at home had more advantages than taking her to our small farm. Emmitt didn't admit how much he loved Lady, but I caught him many times talking to her from the window and he spent all his extra time outside with her. He brushed her mane and tail and led her around the backyard with her halter. When he took her halter off, she followed him anyway. Lady became a privileged character, and she knew it. She ran around inside the yard with the dogs, shaking her beautiful head and prancing like a circus pony.

We kept our animals safely enclosed inside a chain-link fence, but Lady and the dogs ran the length of the fence every time a car went by. One day I found her chasing cars with them. "Oh no! She thinks she's a dog!"

As we loved, enjoyed and laughed at our playful filly, she grew into a very beautiful animal. Summer came, and she ate everything that grew through the chain-link fence and everything she could reach over it. Rose bushes, trees, nothing within her reach was safe. The last straw occurred when she pulled the window screen off the bedroom window. She peeked in.

I finally persuaded Emmitt to take Lady to the farm. Although he couldn't spend as much time with her there, our yard improved considerably.

What a thrill to see her in her newfound freedom. She held her magnificent head and tail high, running like a racehorse.

Then it happened. Emmitt came home from the farm with sorrow written all over his face. "Lady's suddenly gone lame. I can't figure out what happened. She was all right this morning. The vet just left and he can't find anything wrong."

I'll admit that at times I had been a bit jealous of Lady because Emmitt spent so much time with her, but the thought of her hopping around on three legs made my heart ache, too.

Three weeks later, after shots, liniment rubs and many anxious moments, she had not improved at all.

One day a friend just "happened" to loan me a tape about a man who prayed for his horse and it got well. Emmitt and I listened intently to the tape and discovered that God cares about what we care about, even animals.

"Come on," he shouted, jumping up. "We're going to the farm right now and pray for Lady!"

It was a balmy summer night. The moonlight reflected on Lady, and the three of us seemed to sense the awesome beauty and wonder of God. A myriad of stars twinkled overhead, and the distant cooing of doves gave the midnight peace a holy hush. Lady neighed to us in her usual way as we walked up to her. She put her velvety soft nose against Emmitt's shirt and stood motionless on three legs.

"Thank You, Lord," he prayed aloud, "for showing me how real You are. Whether You heal Lady or not, my life will never be the same. And how I praise You for that."

Then Emmitt poured out his heart to God. I cried knowing that no matter how God chose to answer Emmitt's prayer for Lady, He had begun a new work in Emmitt's life.

From that moment on, I had a new husband. He awakened the next morning with a renewed zest for living, grateful for everything in this wonderful world our God has made. We could hardly wait to get to the farm. As we pulled into the gate I saw Lady, still hobbling around on three legs. I hurt most of all for Emmitt's sake.

"I don't care if Lady is crippled the rest of her life, I praise God for everything!" he said.


I silently shot up a prayer of thanksgiving as Emmitt expressed his newfound faith.

It was a gorgeous day at the farm. Lady neighed to us in her loving way. Even the birds seemed to say, "Bless you."

"No use keeping Lady shut up in the lot like this. I'll open the gate. At least maybe she can limp around and eat a little green grass," Emmitt suggested.

The instant he opened the gate, something seemed to quicken in Lady.

She shot out of that gate with her head and tail held high, running like the wind! A thoroughbred could not compare with her beauty. She galloped the full length of the pasture and back to us on four strong, sturdy legs.

It was then I looked at my husband. Tears streamed down his face and his arms stretched toward Heaven in thanksgiving. My heart leaped; the feelings I felt for this man overwhelmed me and I loved him more than ever.

Not only had God answered Emmitt's prayer for Lady, He answered my prayer for Emmitt.

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I Resolved to Make Our Own Holidays

By Saralee Perel

Every day of our lives we are on the verge of making those slight changes that would make all the difference.
~Mignon McLaughlin

It is a bittersweet day when we carefully wrap our holiday ornaments to store in the attic. But years ago, as I was about to take the stockings down, I thought, "If I put these away, there won't be presents in them until next December! That doesn't make sense." So I left one stocking up, where it stays all year. And every so often there's a present in it -- for no reason whatsoever.

Sometimes my husband Bob or I will say to each other, "Have you checked the stocking?" It's never anything big -- maybe a candy bar or a crossword puzzle book.

Every Christmas, we have an elegant dinner by candlelight. This year, as I felt glowingly aware of the uniqueness of the day, time stopped for me in a moment of bliss. And I said to Bob, "Why can't more days be like this?"

"They can't," he said. "This day is special because it comes once a year."

"But that's just in our minds. Life's too short to limit celebrations to what it says on a calendar."

We were savoring Yorkshire pudding when Bob said, "If we had this more often, we wouldn't appreciate it."

"Who says? Every summer when you bite into a lusciously ripe home-grown tomato, you close your eyes in a state of nirvana. Would you want one tomato a year?"

"No," he laughed. "But holidays are different."

"I think you're wrong. It's all what we tell ourselves. I don't want to wait until next December to feel holiday joy."

"But that's when the season comes."

"Why hold off until a certain date to rejoice?" I said. "We don't need an excuse to celebrate. Can't we resolve to make our own tradition of, let's say... having the first day of each month a make-your-own holiday? It doesn't have to be a huge deal. And it's only twelve days a year. We could do something special, like order take-out Chinese food -- and eat it by candlelight."

On Christmas, Bob gave me a beautiful glass snow globe. When I gently shake it, snowflakes softly whirl around a dainty evergreen tree. On each limb is a tiny red candle. It's magical to watch the snow swirl as it slowly settles around the tree. And it brings back memories. When I was a little girl I'd watch snow twirl around a ballerina in a globe, making her seem alive as the flakes made their way toward her pink ballet slippers.

I'm not putting Bob's gift away, even though it's a Christmas scene. It's too beautiful to store in the attic. So it will rest on my mantle where I can treasure its beauty. And my favorite ornament, a hand painted oyster shell from Cape Cod, and of course the stocking, will stay downstairs so we can savor more bliss all year long.


I don't want to miss any potential for festivity. Why would I? Where is it written that corned beef is only for St. Patrick's Day or maple-glazed ham for Easter? Plus, must we wait for friends' birthdays to give them presents?

And so, we both made the resolution to celebrate the first day of every month. "If we don't set the date, we may not do it," I said.

And frankly, I think making our own traditions is just as meaningful as conventional rituals. Because they don't come from a calendar. They come from the love in one's heart.

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My Own Happiness Project

By Alaina Smith

Happiness is an attitude. We either make ourselves miserable, or happy and strong. The amount of work is the same.
~Francesca Reigler

When you find yourself sobbing unexpectedly in a bookstore, you know something's wrong with your life.

I was snuggled into a puffy chair, focused on the book in my lap, Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project. It told the story of the author's yearlong journey to examine her life and make happiness-promoting changes recommended by scientists, philosophers, popular culture, and friends.

As I read the opening pages, I found myself nodding, relating to her ideas. She warned readers that her experience was unique, but I saw reflections of myself in her personality, her marriage style, and her interests. I read quickly and eagerly, thinking I could improve my life, too, and suddenly I was stirred by a long-forgotten feeling, hope.

When my husband and friend found me, I was a sniffling, emotional mess with tears soaking my cheeks. I was overwhelmed not only by a desire for change, but also the realization that I was ready to succeed. I pulled myself together and clutched the book possessively on my way to the checkout counter.

Over the next few weeks I savored the author's words, sometimes reading in bed or in a coffee shop, always with a pencil and paper nearby for notetaking. After I finished, I spent hours sitting at the desk in my study, designing my own happiness project. I considered what happiness meant to me and decided what behaviors to change or keep, how I would make that happen, and what attitudes I would cultivate. It looked like a lot to take on, but I had a plan. Getting more sleep, making time to relax with my husband, seeing my friends frequently -- all these could be accomplished by better time management, right?

Not so fast. The moment I put my plan into action, I was immediately reminded that if it was all so easy, I'd have done it long ago. Sure, some changes were manageable, but I still only had twenty-four hours a day. If I wanted to expand time for my goals, I had to cut other priorities. How was I supposed to say no when everything was important?

Despite that struggle, life began to change -- but not because I'd mastered time. I'll probably always wrestle with the clock. Instead things were looking up mainly because of two attitudes I embraced regardless of what was on my calendar: gratitude and presence.

Gratitude and I go way back. We're like old friends who rarely see each other but always click when they do. Years ago, I'd started a gratitude journal, recording little joys like mint mochas and scented lotion as well as thankfulness for life-defining things like good health and loving relationships. At first I wrote often, then less so as time passed. I didn't give gratitude much thought until years later, when major surgery reminded me how much I needed it. There was nothing like being mostly helpless for months to remind me to appreciate the things I still could do.

The lessons of that time never left me, but, just like my attention to the journal, they faded into the background as life directed my attention elsewhere. It was time for another reminder.

I was running through my gym's parking lot during a rainstorm, preoccupied as usual. As I entered the gym, the desk clerk asked how I was.

"I'm soaked," I complained. "It's pouring out there!"

Instead of commiserating, he asked me an unexpected question. "Do you like the rain?"
I was taken aback. Actually, I had always liked rain. I thought it was comforting, loved its sound, appreciated that it made everything so lushly green. Why was I complaining?

"Yeah, actually, I do," I said, feeling thankful he'd made me think about it. It was a simple moment, but it was an effective reminder that cultivating gratitude is like cultivating a friendship. The more effort I put into appreciating and acknowledging it, the more rewarded I feel.

To keep gratitude in my daily life, I started playing a game called "five things." I think of five things to be thankful for in the moment, with no generic answers allowed. Instead of "I'm grateful for my health," I'll say, "I'm grateful my leg feels well enough today to exercise." This game is particularly helpful when worry sidetracks me, such as when I'm driving home from my job, pointlessly dwelling on workday problems. To distract myself, I focus on five current things to be grateful for, for example, a project finished early, praise from my boss, a favorite song on the radio, a storybook-blue sky ideal for a late-afternoon walk, and the fact that my husband will be cooking his famously mouthwatering hamburgers that night.

Playing "five things," with its emphasis on what's right, right now, works well with its companion attitude -- presence. It wasn't until I started making an effort to live in the moment that I realized how much time I'd spent fretting over past actions or worrying about future events. After struggling for years with anxiety, I was shocked to find that eliminating stress was often as simple as focusing on the present. You can't wander into traffic if you've stopped to smell the roses.

I discovered something delightful, too -- like scissors cutting paper or rock crushing scissors, presence quashes worry. If I'm truly in the moment, I'm not worrying. I'm too busy taking action or having fun. If I start to worry, I can stop it by assigning a time to take the next step to solve the problem and then letting it go until it's time to act. If there's nothing I can do, I skip straight to letting it go. I've found it's not bad situations that sour my life, it's the related worrying that's most toxic.


I'm not saying I'm always happy. Interpreting my world through a prism of gratitude and presence takes practice, and sometimes I need reminders. Recently I was grumping around the house, knowing I should exercise but feeling uninspired. My right leg, which has periodically bothered me since my surgery, was aching.

"I need motivation help," I said to my husband, Frank, who had just gotten home from work. "Will you go on a walk with me?"

"I can't," he said. "My foot's hurting again, and I need to get off my feet."

I must have looked disappointed, because he glanced at me and said, "You look sad! You can't be sad! You're happy now, remember?"

I smiled at the fantasy that I could eliminate all unhappiness. Still, even as I complained that I'd been putting off exercise for days, and you can't just do that -- sure you can, the King of the Couch argued -- my perspective was changing. Frank's comment reminded me that point of view is a decision I make. With that reminder, I knew I was going to walk. I'd appreciate the fresh air, the cold, clear sky, and my ability to take each step through the neighborhood. As I put on my walking shoes and my winter coat, I felt better already. Grateful. Happy.

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Forgiveness Smoothies

By Rebecca Hill

The best portion of a good man's life -- his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
~William Wordsworth

Some foods, such as chocolate-covered strawberries, say, "I love you." Some foods say, "I'm sorry for your loss" -- like the casseroles church members brought over after my dad's death. Some foods, like pepperoni pizza and chicken wings, say, "It's the weekend, the game's on and let's throw caution to the wind." Some foods, like chicken soup, say, "I hope you feel better." And some food says, "It's a new day, let's start fresh and make sure you're healthy and strong." That food would be my husband's strawberry smoothies, which I've secretly named "Forgiveness Smoothies."

I struggle with my weight. I have a wicked sweet tooth that rivals any celebrity's addiction ever splashed across the tabloids. If eating sweets were a crime, they'd definitely put me in jail and throw away the key. There'd be no need for a jury, judge or trial because everyone would already know I was guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. I'm sure I'd never get paroled because no one (except my husband and my Weight Watcher's leaders, Amy and Gwyndolyn) would ever believe there was any chance of me changing my ways.

Sometimes I have my addiction under control. Other times it has control of me. But whether I'm acting reasonable and sane or coming home with chocolate smeared on my lips and French fries in my hair, my husband's Forgiveness Smoothies can always refocus my attention, help me move past my poor choices, and remind me of the person I want to be.

I want to be a person who loves herself and fills her body with wholesome nutrients like strawberries, yogurt, apple juice, protein powder and honey. I want to be a person who drinks one nice tall glass of smoothie and calls that a meal. I want to marvel at "how deliciously sweet strawberries are" rather than upping the sugar-shock value with more and more candy, looking for peace at the bottom of a one-pound bag of chocolate covered peanuts.

Sometimes I am the person I want to be! But sometimes I'm not... sometimes, I sit in my car and eat three candy bars and a piece of cake or a dozen cupcakes for no reason at all. When I sit in my car bingeing, I get a temporary high, but almost immediately I feel nauseated and disgusted with my destructive behavior. On these nights, I crawl into bed feeling like a slug and wonder if I will ever change.

This is where my husband's Forgiveness Smoothies come into play. My husband is naturally thin and he monitors what he eats without even really trying. He has a treat every now and then, but he never has five treats in one day. He's always looking for food that is both delicious and nutritious and he cares about my health enormously, so it's natural for him to say "Hey, do you want me to make smoothies for breakfast?" I always say "Yes!" because I feel like a champion when I'm drinking one of these smoothies. "Look at me," I think. "I'm doing what thin people do. I'm having a nice, healthy smoothie for breakfast. For this moment in time, I'm keeping pace with fitness gurus like Bob Greene, Richard Simmons, Kiana Tom and Arnold Schwarzenegger. I love it! I feel like a terminator!"

Drinking these smoothies restores me physically, mentally and emotionally. I feel like I'm being given a fresh start. Even if the day before was a disaster in terms of my food choices, I know at least for today -- at least for this one meal -- I am being good to my body and I am eating in a reasonable, sane, nutritious way.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I don't think there's anything "bad" about having a decadent meal every now and then or splurging on a sinful dessert occasionally. I'm not talking about conscious, calculated decisions made because I really want Aunt Sally's macaroni and cheese or Mama's homemade lasagna. No one needs to be forgiven for eating things like that. But if, like me, you lose control sometimes, then you might be in need of a Forgiveness Smoothie too, so here's my husband's recipe. Bottoms up -- it's a new day -- a fresh start. This is indeed the breakfast of champions!

Forgiveness Smoothie

Two smoothies:
1 banana
1 cup apple juice
1 cup low fat vanilla yogurt
1 scoop protein powder
2 cups frozen strawberries*
2 teaspoons honey

If you are only making one smoothie, just divide the entire recipe in half.

*When you use frozen fruit (instead of fresh fruit) there's no need to put ice in the blender -- it's a handy trick that has worked well for me because the smoothies are cold without being watered down by ice cubes.

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Just a Small New Year's Resolution

By Sonja Herbert

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
~T.S. Eliot

I sit in the high school auditorium and watch my youngest, Meagan, receive her diploma. The blue and yellow cords over her red gown testify to the awards she won and the excellent work she did in school. I think of her bright smile just a few days ago, when she received her scholarship award from the university of her choice.

Her older brother holds a degree in physics and computers, one sister is an engineer, and two other sisters are planning to attend evening classes at colleges near them. And to think all of this came about because of one simple, even selfish, New Year's resolution I had made many years ago!

That New Year's Eve, I returned to the living room from tucking the first two of my children into bed.

"I've decided on my New Year's resolution," my husband said, looking up from watching the New Year's celebration on TV. "I'm going to save for my pilot lessons. If I don't start now, I'll never achieve my dream of flying a plane some day."

"Good for you," I answered. "But what about me? I'm stuck with the kids all day. It's not that I don't enjoy being a mother, but sometimes I wish I could do something for myself, too."

"Why don't you?" Gary suggested. "I'm sure you can think of something to do away from home." His attention returned to the show.

I sat down next to him, my eyes on the TV, and my thoughts about three thousand miles away. I could take an English class at the nearby college. That way, I'd get out of the house and learn something useful. And maybe I could improve my accent, so people would understand me better. After all, I'd come to the United States with my American husband only four years ago.

I grew up in post WWII Germany. At fourteen, after eight years of school, my mother sent me to work in a factory to support her and my five siblings. But even then I wanted more. I joined an American Christian church, and with the encouragement of my new friends, attended evening classes to learn English.

And now here I was, cut off from my family, mostly enjoying being a mother. But sometimes I wanted more. After all, I rationalized, if I take a class again, it wouldn't just benefit me; my children would have an advantage, too.

"You're right," I said. "I'll see if the college will allow me to take an English class. Just one class won't keep me away from the kids too long."

"Give it a try," my husband said. "I'm sure you'll do well."

But in my heart, I wondered. Taking a college class would be different from night classes learning English. I didn't know if I had the stuff to succeed in a university setting.

By the time classes started again, I realized I was expecting baby number three, so, half relieved and half disappointed, I postponed my resolution.

One day in March, after I'd put the kids down and finished cleaning up the supper dishes, my husband called to me from the living room, "I found a teacher."

Guilt made me almost drop the glass in my hand. "What teacher?" I yelled back.

"A pilot, licensed to teach flying."

"Oh." He wasn't talking about me, after all. Not everybody sticks to their New Year's resolution, I thought as I put away the last glass and then plopped onto the sofa next to him.

"What about your resolution?" he challenged me. "Have you signed up yet at the college?"

I shook my head. "I'm pregnant, you know."

"That shouldn't keep you from going back to school. If you sign up now, you could take the spring semester and be done in plenty of time before the baby comes."

I realized Gary was right. The worst that could happen would be that I'd drop the class again. I thought of the never-ending tasks at home, cooking three meals every day, a job I didn't really enjoy, chasing after Marja, the two year old, until I was exhausted, helping Dennis with homework, cleaning floors and washing dishes, wiping noses and changing diapers, and the prospect of soon having one more little life dependent on me. I knew I needed to do something for myself.

The next day, after dropping Dennis off at kindergarten, I took little Marja and we went to see the registrar at the college. I asked to be admitted to English 101 and told him I had the money ready. He made me fill out some papers. When he read them, he shook his head at my lack of a high school certificate.

"Okay," he finally said. "Try English 101. If you do well, you can keep taking classes."

I smiled as I returned to my car with a lighter heart.

A friend down the road babysat Marja three times a week while I attended class. I loved discovering the different styles of writing essays and trying my hand at them. At home, when I was busy with some routine task, in my head I went over what I had learned that day, and in the evenings, instead of watching TV with Gary, I sat at the table doing my homework.

I walked away from that first class with an A+.

After Daniel was born, I took English 102 and 103, and then put my education on hold while my fourth child Marit, came along. Two years later, even though I was expecting again, I knew I had to return to school. This time I took three classes at a time and paid a babysitter with the money I made typing term papers for other students. Our home wasn't as clean as it used to be and the older children helped cook, but I was happier, and my kids were proud of their mom, who also went to school, just like they did.


Two years later the sixth child was on the way, but by that time my marriage had become rocky, and my need to have an education was strong. I finished finals for my second-to-last semester the day before Meagan was born, and I took her with me to classes as I finished my AA in English and Foreign Languages.

Half a year later, I separated from Gary and moved with my six children to Cedar City, where I attended the university full-time. I divorced my husband a year before I earned my BA in German, English, and Spanish, and a teaching certificate.

I taught high school for three years, and then I returned to the university for a Masters in Language Acquisition. Again, my children and I went to school together. I remember getting special permission from a professor during summer semester to bring little Meagan along with me to a class.

Now, as I sit in the auditorium, watching Meagan get ready for the university, I realize the impact of the New Year's resolution I made so long ago. Because I followed through on that resolution, education has changed not just my life, but the futures of all my children.

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Surprise Visitors

By Margaret Lang

How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.
~William Shakespeare

My eyes focused on a long sidewalk that stretched out of sight. As I sat by the window and waited, nothing moved. I saw no girls with backpacks, tossing their hair, happily chatting on their way back from school. I'd only been in my wheelchair a few weeks, following an illness with a high fever that left me weak. It was all so new to me -- home all day, unable to attend the opening days of school, studying with a tutor.

My life had centered on my girlfriends because boys had seldom paid any attention to me. I thought of guys as interested only in their sports, their friends, their lives. I couldn't remember the last time a boy from school said or did something nice for me.

I wondered why the girls weren't visiting. We had spent so much time together, riding double on bikes, falling over onto the grass in laughter, and running fast around the baseball diamond while the whole team cheered. Now I couldn't even run at all. I wheeled away from the sunroom window, usually a place of sunshine and light, but on that day it was overshadowed by doubt.

"Here's a snack, dear." My mother's voice startled me out of my thoughts. With my only brother away at college and Dad off on a long business trip, Mom did her best to lift my spirits... but I needed my friends. Desperation began to rise in me.

Surely they would come.

Then one day I saw two small figures on the sidewalk, not quite as bouncy as I had expected. As they kicked the fallen leaves, I realized they were not girls, but boys.

Boys wouldn't visit someone stuck in a wheelchair. I watched disinterested, certain they would go right past my house, until, shock of shocks, they turned up my walkway. With my neck stretched forward to see better, I recognized them as guys I barely knew from school -- Phil and Mike.

I did wheelies as I sped to the front door.

"We just came by to see how you are," they said.

I couldn't believe it. Girls might go out of their way to visit me, but never boys.

"Well... come in."

Mom served them cookies and I asked them about sports and school. Even though long pauses dominated the conversation, they didn't seem eager to leave, and they came again... even when Mom had no cookies to serve. It really blew my mind. Why would boys do this?

It couldn't have been because they had a crush on me, since I was already a couple of inches taller than them. It couldn't have been my popularity, since I didn't hang out with the popular girls anymore. It couldn't have been because I was a lot of fun in my wheelchair -- clearly I wasn't.


My girlfriends soon visited and apologized that activities had kept them busy. "We just don't have much extra time," they said. The boys, however, seemed to make time. Then and there, my mind did a 180 -- maybe boys could be nice after all, even go the extra mile, literally. After all, they could have walked the mile to my house, once, and thought that sufficient. But Phil and Mike walked another mile, and then another. Perhaps they didn't even know it, but their faithful weekly visits until snow set in gave me something to look forward to and hope to carry on.

The second term, I felt strong enough to be on my feet and return to school. Phil and Mike couldn't be spotted in the swarm of students that buzzed through the hallways between classes. But I never forgot them and their acts of kindness that brightened my loneliest days.

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Growing Pains

By Kim Ehlert

As a parent you try to maintain a certain amount of control and so you have this tug-of-war... You have to learn when to let go. And that's not easy.
~Aretha Franklin

Today, Ryan and I are on a mission. We have just arrived at the baby mega store. I unbuckle the straps from Ryan's seat and lift his squirmy body from the car. Side by side, we begin a slow, meandering walk from the car to the store as Ryan stops to inspect every rock and sidewalk crack along the way. Today, we are in search of a potty, the one item that we have not yet purchased after two years of frequenting this popular retail establishment. Ryan has recently displayed some interest in potty-related matters, and I intend to take advantage of this apparent window of opportunity.

Once we are inside the store, I lift him into the shopping cart. He holds his half of the smoothie we are sharing in one hand and a bag of Goldfish in the other. While he settles himself and his snacks in the seat, I sneak a long look at him, knowing he will soon grow impatient and command me to get moving. I notice his pants are hiked up above his socks, and his wrists are peeking out from the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. He is growing again. It is time for new clothes -- again. Since we are already here, I take a detour to the clothing section. As we approach the adorable shorts and T-shirts hanging loftily from miniature hangers, my eyes begin to skim the racks. I scan them quickly -- 0-6 months, 6-12 months, 12-18 months -- and then I stop, feeling foolish. This is a baby store. These clothes are for babies. Ryan, who is now over two years old, is not a baby. My head knows this, but it takes my heart a while to catch up.

I pause to wait for it -- there -- the tidal wave that crashes over me. My breath catches in the back of my throat, and my heart gives a familiar squeeze. I stop the cart and wait patiently for the sensations to pass. No need to panic. It's just another episode of motherhood growing pain: his growing, my pain.

Since becoming a mother, I have been surprised by many things. One of them is this: The biggest moments are actually the small ones, the ones that sneak up on you, arrive unexpectedly, and stop you in your tracks. The big milestones, such as giving birth, first steps, and birthdays, are important, too. But what I hold most dear are those tiny moments, bright seconds in time flung together to shape the constellation of motherhood.

I remember so clearly the first of those moments. It was several days after Ryan's birth. After numbly kissing my husband goodbye as he left for work, I headed upstairs with Ryan to change his diaper. As we entered his room, we were greeted by the happy colors and whimsical dancing stars on the walls, bright with early morning sunshine. The room still felt new. Bookshelves were neatly arranged with matching, brightly colored baskets and stiff-spined books. The dresser was orderly, containing carefully folded newborn clothes and tiny diapers. The sweet smell of Dreft detergent lingered in the air.

"Good morning, Peanut," I cooed as I gently lowered Ryan onto the changing pad. I knew from the baby books I had been diligently reading that his eyesight wasn't well-developed yet. But the bright alertness and curiosity in his eyes convinced me he was carefully studying my face and features. I unsnapped his onesie and tenderly placed a hand on his belly as I reached for a diaper. His arms and legs flailed about, a windmill of extremities over which he had not yet mastered control.

With a start, I noticed the small, dark stump of his umbilical cord had fallen off. It had been cast aside to reveal a tiny belly button underneath, a perfect "O" of surprise, fleshy and pink. I leaned forward to place a kiss there, pleased with the newly revealed landscape on his small body to explore. Suddenly, I burst into tears. The clear, salty drops made their way down my face, hesitated slightly on my quivering chin, then fell and pooled delicately into that new crevice on his body.

Had anyone else been there, I could have used any number of excuses for my bizarre behavior: hormones, fatigue, sleep deprivation. But I knew it was none of those things, and I was grateful to be having that odd moment in private.

Bewildered, I gathered my son in my arms and sought the solace of the rocking chair nearby. As I rocked with him, my mind retreated to examine my recent unexpected burst of emotion. The event was a normal rite of passage for a newborn. I should have felt relief. But, instead, a cold sorrow took hold of my heart.

I thought about that perfect belly button, closed and sealed off to the world. I remembered how that place used to connect him to me. Through that connection, I was able to provide for him, nourish him, and protect him. It ground him to me, made him a part of me. Then, mere minutes after his birth, a flash of cold metal severed the cord and he was set free, a task that had been joyfully delegated to my husband by the nurse and doctor. No one had asked me if I was ready, if I was prepared to let go. The physical connection between my son and me was broken. He became his own living being, a separate person, his own person.

My eyes welled up again as a new and unfamiliar pain formed inside my gut, a hurt so visceral that I could not identify the exact source. Slowly, the thought came to me: He is leaving me. Only days old, and he is already leaving me. He will always be leaving me. My first motherhood growing pain.


In the aisle of the baby store, I lean on the cart and wait patiently for the pressure in my chest to subside. Soon, I am able to take a deep breath, collect my thoughts, and move on, back on track to the potty aisle.

After two years, I have become more accustomed to these heartbreaking moments of motherhood. They still hurt and take my breath away, but I am not blindsided the way I was with the first one. Although often unexpected, when it occurs I can identify that pang, stop and briefly feel the pain, then move on. Some moments are filled with sadness and longing, but others contain great pride and joy.

I finally locate the potty aisle, release Ryan from the shopping cart, and allow him to examine the selection. After careful deliberation, he decides on the Elmo potty. He appears to be quite pleased with his choice as he chatters to Elmo and Big Bird on the box on the way to the checkout counter. After I make the purchase, Ryan reaches up to me with a free hand and leads us to the store exit. Silently, I say goodbye to the baby store as we leave. The doors close softly behind us as we step out into the warm sunlight of the late spring afternoon.

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