Sunday, May 18, 2008

Sunday Go-To-Meetin' Clothes


I love Saturday evenings. After Isabella goes to bed I begin my usual ritual of picking up her toys, following her little baby trails of cheerios, bits of paper and small toys she's carried around, and then I clean up the rest of the house making sure everything is in order for our Sunday morning. Then I iron her little dress, careful that every crease is perfect and crisp. You may wonder why I bother, seeing as between the car seat, and then the nursery, it will be a mottled mess of wrinkles and baby slobber by the time it's all said and done. But for some reason it is extremely important to me that every last detail is perfect on Sunday morning. Since she's walking now I'm finding myself a little bit more weepy, I rather feel like I'm losing my baby...and while ironing her teeny tiny little pleats and hems, then laying out her little bows and shoes I can't help but fast forward to the day where Sundays are in uproar as she chooses her own outfits and doesn't want my input on anything...and then to the day when like me, she can't seem to make any decisions without picking up the phone to "ask mom" It's so hard for me to believe that nearly 22 years ago my own mom was ironing my little smocked Sunday dresses, and was most likely thinking these exact thoughts.

When I'm getting Isabella ready on Sunday mornings I'm flooded with memories of my own childhood, when on Sunday mornings there was my mom, sitting in a chair in the living room, comb in one hand, squirt bottle in the other, a line of three beautifully dressed, yet bleary eyed girls complete with bed-head, waiting for our mom to braid, comb, part and hair-bow us to perfection. I remember doing my fair share of grumbling over my crisp smocked collar that was scratchy, and my itchy tights that "spaced" between the legs. But my mom, ever long suffering, would sigh and say "You should always look your best when you go to church on Sunday"

That is why it is so important to me...a couple of decades later, while ironing a tiny little frock, I realized with a jolt that I'm passing my parent's family values to my own child, though she doesn't know it yet. She will one day...those eyes will open up wide and she'll realize just how much her momma and daddy taught her just by being the good parents they were. You just can't put that type of grateful into words.

3 comments:

A glance at my world said...

So how is the sewing going with your new machine??

My dad is from Pea Ridge and my mom is from Harrison. They're both pretty small. Do you know if that's anywhere near where your family lived??

Lovie said...

It's good to know I did something right! Sometimes during the bumpy years, you wonder if you are doing anything right at all. We are so proud of our little Navy moma.

*G* said...

Very sweet post. What great growing up memories you have. Aunt *G*