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:

I took a picture of my aunt holding Alaina before I found the pictures of myself and coincidentally, she was looking off the same direction!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.”

(emphasis mine)

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:

Oh, does my heart both swell and ache to see those little tippy-toes.