One sunny day in April…

It was like a scene out of some bad TV show. There I was, curled up in a ball on my bathroom floor, watching
the second hand of my watch ticking by. Three minutes? Like hell! Felt more like a year and a half. Hey, if
you’re laughing then you’ve been there, am I right? And oh yeah, what kind of crummy joke is it have to pee
on a stick to find out if you’re pregnant? Who’s the sick bastard that thought that one up?

Time’s up. Moment of truth. 17 years old and praying to God almighty that there are not two lines on the
stick. Please oh please oh please oh please. They tell you when you’re pregnant that when you become a
mother it’ll be the hardest and most rewarding thing you’ve ever done with your life. I went into parenthood
with my eyes wide open. I knew it would be though, I wasn’t sugar-coating anything. The thing is, it was
twice as hard as anything I could have ever imagined. And twice as rewarding.

My mother told me that once you hold your own baby in your arms you’ll finally understand the true meaning
of love. She was right. You can’t have a baby in the house and not be awestruck. Have you ever looked into
the eyes of a one year old? I mean really, really looked? They are full of amazement and wonder. Exploring,
searching, questioning. And then it dawns on you – they’re seeing the world for the first time. Every so often
you’ve got to look at the world through the eyes of a child. I mean get down to their level and see what it’s all
about. I used to get down on my knees and follow her around. You know, seeing things from her perspective.
It sucks being little. I mean, a countertop is a huge obstacle for a two-year-old. Washing your hands, getting to
a faucet, reaching your glass of milk – not easy.

You come to realize that the things you take for granted are completely new for you child. A few years back I
was racing through town trying to get to my sister’s house. We were late for a birthday party and it had been
raining all morning. Then I hear this little tiny voice from the backseat, “Look Mommy, a rainbow.” I glanced
out the passenger door and saw it. “Uh huh, that’s nice.” There were a few moments of silence, and then her
little voice once more said, “I’ve never seen a rainbow before.”

Reality check. Four years old and she’d never seen a rainbow. I mean, they’re neat and all, but they’re just
rainbows, right? Well, not when it’s the first time you’ve ever looked at one. They’re in all the storybooks, all
the TV shows, but it never occurred to me that she’d never seen one before. I pulled the car into the next
parking lot and we piled out. We must’ve stayed there for 15, maybe 20 minutes, just looking at the
rainbow…talking about it, taking it all in.

I still remember her smile. There’s no way you can look into her beautiful little face, look deep into those blue
eyes and not know that there’s a God. Because only God could make something that precious, that innocent.

Her fifth year was far and away the funniest. I love five-year-olds. They still respect you as a parent, love you
as a mother, and look up to you as an infallible leader. Five years old: kindergarten, learned how to ride a
bike, lost her first tooth, started gymnastics, began to read and write, learned how to do the hula hoop, tied her
own shoes, fed the goldfish on her own, and wiped her own butt. It was a GREAT year. It was around that
time that Sarah came up to me one night and presented me with this. “It’s a round Tuit. Now whenever you
say you “need to get a round to it, you’ll already have one.” She had cut it out of the National Geographic for
Kids Magazine. The edges were perfectly rounded. I remember thinking, “When did you get so good with a
pair of scissors?”
A year later I was finally able to move out of my parents’ house. Sarah and I moved into a three bedroom
apartment just before the start of second grade. Grandma and Grandpa were only two miles away so the after
school babysitting thing was all taken care of.

And then I got the phone call that she was dead. Yeah, just like that. You didn’t see that one coming, did you?
Well, imagine my surprise. In the movies there’s always this sinister music that leads up to some traumatic
event. You know, kind of a premonition of impending doom. Well, it’s not like that. There was no warning.
Just a phone call. She’s dead. She fell into the Parkington River and they couldn’t find her. She had two
friends that were with her. They were rock hopping along the riverbank. She slipped. The river pours into the
ocean about a mile and a half downstream. We never found her. Gone. Totally and utterly gone. I was busy
making lunch and putting it into her Winnie the Pooh lunchbox. The next second I have no daughter. She’s
dead. And I can’t even say good-bye, because we can’t find her body to have a funeral.

It’s a little bit harder to believe in God now.

I suppose my reaction to losing Sarah was similar to anyone who’s ever lost a child. I was numb for weeks.
My life was devoted to her, I did everything for her. What was I to do now? I stayed home for two months. I
lost 35 pounds, was hospitalized three times for depression and exhaustion and I took up smoking. Nobody
knew what to do with me, but truth be told, I just wanted to be left alone. Just leave me alone.

Finally, my boss Kelly came by my place. She went through all the standard lines: “Our hearts are breaking
for you. Everything will be ok. I can’t imagine what you are going through right now. If there’s anything I can
do to help just let me know”- I hate that one. But then she said, you know that you’ll always have a place at
the store when you’re ready. You can come back to work whenever you get around to it.

I went to work the next day...