My family is in a whirlwind of activity and excitement preparing for my brother’s wedding on Sunday and we have relatives visiting from out-of-town. The wedding is at my parents’ house and so there has been a frenzy of cleaning! During said frenzy, my mom found several sweet little smocked dresses made by my grandmother. Alaina wore one to homeschool co-op on Wednesday where she was complimented on her “vintage look.” That night, my grandma arrived from CA and we were talking about the dress. I said I thought it had been mine and a vague memory of Easter pictures of me wearing it surfaced. I snagged my infant photo album and sure enough there it was! (and, appropriately, I’m actually wearing it when we were visiting them in CA.)
Check me out:
Since my grandma is visiting for my brother’s wedding and she is the person who made the dress in the first place, of course I had to get a photo of her with Alaina:
And then one of the former dress-wearer and current dress-wearer together:
Moments like these are sweet and beautiful, while simultaneously feeling shocking and almost depressing.
And, I’m reminded of this poem I have previously shared:
“Holding tight to my neck, my son
trusts – he knows no other way – my touch lightly
dries his tears. I am his queen, his goddess, handily
his slave. Blink, it’s a photo again, a trick of the eye,
a frozen captive of time, paper, light and silver: my son
is a grown man: he drinks from his own hand.
Reader, I urge you,
spin slowly, take pictures, remember to laugh.”
I would say, remember to look. Remember to feel. Remember to notice. Pay attention. Tell about it.
This is what I looked and noticed yesterday when we went to pick my boys up from taekwondo class: