Lettuce and a tomato

I had to run out for lettuce and a tomato. I did what I could to avoid it because I'm feeling so lazy today, but the dinner I need the lettuce and tomato for is painfully simple and I couldn't really justify not making a quick run to the store. So I did.

I wasn't too bothered by the fact that somehow I managed to trail a pregnant woman throughout the store, as if she was on the same lettuce and tomato mission as me, but my breaking point came when I reached the checkout line. I know I've written about this before, but it happened again. The shortest and most logical line had a newborn baby in it and if I chose that line I'd have to stand right behind a new Mom gently cradling a baby in her arms.

I looked frantically for another line and tried to mentally count what was buried in my basket to see if I qualified for the express checkout, but I would have looked foolish opting to go to a line that was packed and I was pretty sure I had more than 11 items. So I slowly inched into the newborn baby line.

Oh God, she was so beautiful. I was so close that I could see her little peach fuzz hair catching the light streaming through the windows. I know just how that tiny head felt because I can still feel the way Thomas' felt under my hand. Warm and soft and alive.

It's hard to describe how useless, empty and broken I feel when I'm confronted by a newborn. I was holding a basket of food and that serene, content new Mom was holding a child. I know strangers can't see - can't tell that I lost my son - but I still feel like there's a giant neon sign above my head screaming "BROKEN" and pointing at me.

I'm sure I must have looked like an idiot because I couldn't take my eyes off that little bundle. When the Mom turned towards me to walk around her baby carriage I smiled at her - a weak, unreal smile - but she didn't see me. I wanted, in my smile, to tell her that I had a baby once too and he was beautiful and soft and sweet just like hers. I wanted my smile to somehow convey to her that I was also a mother - that we had that in common - even though I was holding a basket of food instead of my child. I don't know why I cared so much what she did or didn't think of me, but it didn't matter anyway because she only had eyes for her daughter.

Sometimes I hate going out for lettuce and a tomato.