Big Shoes to Fill

In 2004, Hubsters and I decided we wanted to start trying to have kids.  I say "start trying" now, but at the time, it was more a "let's have kids" sort of mentality.  Because, you know, why wouldn't we just get pregnant right off the bat?  (Okay, I knew there was virtually no way I'd be getting pregnant easily, but the naiveté of youth made me sufficiently hopeful to assume that, sure, despite that little fact of having the "cycle" (let's keep this G rated, people) of an anorexic Olympic runner, it'll happen.).  Fast forward a few years, several rounds of clomid and several dozen doctor's visits between three different specialists, and I was a little more practical.  Dejected, too, yet still hopeful, because that's sort of my thing.

My sister and I were at Target buying shoes for her beautiful daughter, who was a baby at the time.  I walked by a pair of little brown Mary Janes and just stopped.  

A desperate need filled my heart.  For the shoes, for a baby, for the answer to my urgent, relentless prayers.  I bought them.  And I hid them in the back of a really boring drawer so 22 (my husband) wouldn't find them, because I knew how sad he would be that I was torturing myself with the cuteness of these little Mary Janes.  Through more and more doctor's appointments, tests, and two failed rounds of IVF, these little shoes sat in the back of my drawer.  They represented everything I wanted.  Everything I feared I would never have.  When I pulled them out on occasion to look at them, a fierce battle between agony and hope raged in my chest.  Regardless of the future, I knew I'd never throw them away.  They were too precious.  More precious than cute, even.  Sometimes when I saw them, my throat caught.  Sometimes a sob ripped through me. But other times, I just smiled.  Agony won many a battle, but even without having a child, I think hope was always winning the war.

Maybe a year after I bought and hid these darling little shoes, we moved into our house, and 22 unpacked my sock drawer box and found them.  He was a little sad for me, but he was drawn to them, too.  When we went to England as a "consolation" for our failed IVF (and by consolation, I mean "my way of emotionally blackmailing 22 to finally get the vacation I'd wanted for like nine years"), he even suggested we buy a little Oxford t-shirt to add to our "collection." At the time, the shirt looked so tiny.  We couldn't imagine anything smaller!  It should fit Baby Girl when she's two.

At any rate, those shoes stayed with me.  They were at the back of my drawer when we received the distinct answer to prayer that we should not pursue IVF any further.  They were at the back of my drawer when I encountered more and more success at work - and when I decided to allow myself to enjoy that success.  They were at the back of my drawer when we went on seriously awesome vacations, when we bought beautiful things for our home, when we unabashedly enjoyed the fruits of our labors rather than punishing ourselves for not being able to have children.   They were at the back of my drawer every single morning and every single night when we prayed for a child.  They were at the back of my drawer when I realized that I no longer wanted to try fertility treatments and that I yearned, sincerely, painfully, hopefully yearned, to adopt.

One perfect day in July of 2012, they were moved from the back of my drawer to my tiny, baby girl's closet.  

And they were in my baby's closet Friday, August 2nd, when I realized my daughter was finally big enough to fit into them.  

Baby Girl, these are some very, very big shoes you've filled.  More than filled.  You're so sweet and loving.  Nothing in the world makes you happier than seeing other people happy (except for doggies - you are OBSESSED with doggies.).  You're sassy and funny and clever in a way that already thrills me.  You work hard for the things you want and you ignore (well, throw) the things that you don't care about.  You would rather climb over a mountain than go around it, even if going around it is easier (or makes more sense, frankly.  But then, you're a baby.).  That's just your style.  And lest anyone ever, ever think that I expect perfection out of you, or that I expect you to live up to every hope and dream I ever had about a child, they're wrong.  I expect imperfection out of you, because that's what makes you unique and special and silly and flat out beautiful.   There never was a "hope for a perfect child" in my head.  Just a knowledge that I had a cute pair of shoes waiting for a baby who would be the perfect fit.  And that's you.

You make the shoes look good, kid.