I stood in the check-out line three people deep.
Only one checker again.
The line behind me was growing,
and the woman in front of me looked backwards and sighed as the woman at the register still stayed questioning something on her receipt.
You could feel the tension rising;
The solidarity in just wanting to get home.
The red eyes of the young guy behind me looked visibly relieved when the belt progressed enough to allow him room to dump off his heavy tumbling armload of beer and salty snacks.
Every eye in line bore the same grayish expression.
Dinner time on a Thursday night.
This was not the prime place to be.
I had just picked up a magazine, figuring I’d at least fill my time waiting with a questionably sourced Royal education when suddenly I could hear a tiny sing-songy voice growing closer to me.
“Oranges, oranges, I love all da oranges!”
Moments later a small family appeared,
the father grinning and holding the hand of a darling two year old girl dressed in every color and mismatched pattern under the sun.
Worn looking wool sweater.
I love when kids are in wool.
She had joined the line for merely seconds when an old, downcast looking woman came to stand behind her, carrying only cat food and a single cupcake.
The woman looked mostly at her shoes.
Her shoulders were slumped.
She looked so tired until…
“Is dat a cupcake?!” The little girl cried out, in a flash hopping over and pulling gently at the old woman’s hand in order to bring the cupcake to her own eye level.
“Oh! I LOVE cupcakes! Is dis my BIRFDAY?!
Is dis my surprise?!”
She flung her arms out and hollered a resonating “SURPRISE!!!”
The entire line was now turning to face her, changed expressions appearing everywhere.
Our rainy-day looking eyes magnetically drawn to this small burst of bright rainbow joy.
The old woman only smiled as the parents apologized, and softly told the girl “We don’t pull on people’s hands.”
I could tell, however, that the interaction had triggered a happy memory in the woman.
Her lighter posture said she needed no apology.
As those of us in line now made eye-contact, and whispered “So cute” to each other,
the little girl darted up in front of the young man that was buying his beer,
which is when she spread her feet wide, and drew up two hand claws and did her very best giggle “RAWR” right up at him.
He smiled a half-smile, and then he “Rawred” right back.
This young man who was someone’s kid, too.
By this point every person around was smiling, and interacting.
Before I knew it it was my turn at the register.
I paid for my items, and before leaving turned back to the little family with a smile and said to them,
“She is so cute. Cherish this time,” and I went and climbed, still smiling, into my car;
Only,
immediately I could feel the lump in my throat forming, and as I sat there wondering what on earth was happening to me,
I began to cry.
For five minutes I stayed parked and wondered if this was what going crazy felt like,
trying to evaluate just what it was I was feeling that would have effected me in that way;
But then it dawned on me:
That entire interaction had simply transported me back to another time.
Not necessarily simpler,
just different.
Not necessarily easier,
just not quite as rough-edged.
Cuter voices.
Better smells.
The mismatched, monster-growling, sing-songy nature of a two year old is something you crave sometimes when you have pre-teens.
Having to use 12 paper towels to wipe their spaghetti aftermath a dream life next to having to wipe their crushed heart tears.
Lately it’s been such a struggle with my 11 year old, Tessa.
Sometimes on hard nights I just scroll through her baby pictures on my phone and remember…
She used to have so much bubbly joy.
She used to be that little girl in that line.
She was my mismatched rainbow girl.
I didn’t want her eyes to be going gray.
Would the love I was giving help keep her tethered?
Would she ever know the times I have cried for her in that car?
After my personal van therapy session, but still feeling the ache of the way things used to be,
I backed out of my spot and headed down the road back towards home.
I was not a half-block into the drive when this story began on the radio:
A young girl, who had been very close to her father, had lost him a few years ago.
Grieving his loss, and missing their chats,
this woman began texting his phone number often just to share about her day, and the details of her life.
For four years she texted, telling him she loved him and missed him so much.
Her way of sorting through her own grief.
Then, on the anniversary of his death 4 years in, she texted a message saying how much she missed him and hoped he would see it wherever he was.
Much to her surprise,
this time she received a text message back.
You see,
for the last four years a man who had been given her father’s old number had been receiving and reading all of her texts.
Not wanting to break her heart, he hadn’t responded, but he went on to report that he had tragically lost his own daughter in a car accident years before, and these messages from this daughter yearning for her dad had many times been what he credited as keeping him still alive.
In his return message to her he told her how amazing she was, and how proud of her her father would be.
If her experience, her struggles, had helped save another person,
“…Then nothing is wasted,” I thought.
No little orange song that lifts up a heart,
No touch on an old woman’s hand,
Not bringing your burst of color into a sea of gray,
Not a memory that is evoked.
No work you put in as a mother,
Not even one tear cried alone in your car.
Everything we are,
Everything we do,
Everything we go through and share will start a ripple.
The first drop never knows just how far.
*For the original story of the texting daughter, including full texts
go here:
https://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/family-relationships/woman-texts-dead-father-s-phone-for-4-years-finally-receives-an-emotional-reply/ar-AAJvUVe
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
