Those of you who walk a lot in your neighborhood know how it is, to find yourself on a street or an alley or a block that you rarely travel. That block of Windom Place I walked the other day has one house that- passing it- released an old memory. A memory linked with an ever-fresh feeling of gratitude.

I didn’t know her well and can’t even remember her name, or her daughter’s name, but for a short while we were in a mother-and-babies play/meet up group. When we met in her house, I remember a shamefully small attitude- I confess to being put off by her early adoption of an open concept addition, one that I could not imagine ever being able to afford. She didn’t stay in the group long, I believe moving for her husband’s work. I don’t know if we would have become real friends given more time or not. But I am forever and warmly in her debt.

I was heavily pregnant with my third child. Having given up my job at the first birth, I was painstakingly frugal as well. I was in a babysitting coop and two food-buying coops. I figured that my decision to be a stay at home mom for these years had to be balanced with ingenuity in cost-savings. Thus, I was wearing used maternity clothes from my local thrift shop. When I realized I really did need a warm coat for my big body (the baby was due mid-January) I got one from my mother’s closet, a blue tweed a-line style that had been bought long before that by my mother’s friend’s mother. I didn’t care, I only needed it for a month or so. As you can see, I was determined not to spend unnecessary money on dressing myself for this, my last pregnancy.

So somehow during this mom’s gathering I mentioned that I didn’t know what I was going to wear to this New Year’s Day party. It was hosted by my husband’s work, in the days when businesses did that sort of thing. I didn’t want to go. I was enormous, I was not in a party mood. I was defensive about my choice to be a stay at home mom. And I certainly didn’t feel like anyone’s attractive partner.

Well, this friend said she might still have a plain but dressy black maternity dress I could have. I protested- maybe borrow, I said, but she persisted and I got it- she wouldn’t be needing it again. Later that week I found the dress in a grocery bag hanging on my doorknob.

And it was perfect. Those were the days of dressing pregnant women in baby clothes or in tents, but this was a stylish, well-made tent. It had a pretty neckline and three-quarter sleeves with a subtle ruffle. It hit me at a flattering place just below the knee. In between neck and knee was quality fabric that swished around my body in a comfortable way.

The dress inspired me to put a little effort in. I had my old wedding shoes, long ago dyed from the original ivory to black, and still brought out for dressy occasions. I went to the mall and bought fancy black lace panty hose, to capitalize on my legs- my best feature at the moment. I brought out a sparkly set of cut-crystal choker and earrings that were handed down from my mom and that I had never considered wearing. But this was the occasion.

A smear of eye shadow and lip gloss and so we went. I felt beautiful from the neck up and I even felt sexy from the knees down. And in between I felt comfortable, even danceable. I don’t think we stayed late but for me, the evening was a success.

That baby I carried as I danced is now a grown man. That party, of course, had little importance in the trajectory of my life. But however shallow and superficial it might seem, it was a time that I badly needed to feel like I looked good. And I had felt that way. So as I pass this house and think of the black dress I wore once then gave away, I give a nod of gratitude.