Deuce

Amidst the chaos of moving, unpacking, vacationing, and turning 30, my little girl is growing up. She will be 10 months old on Sunday and the thought of double digits in her "age" is bittersweet.

I love the little girl that she is becoming. Hearing "Mama" is as wonderful a sound as her giggles. Seeing her stand solo and walk b/w furniture with unneeded support from them is exhilarating. Her ability to high five and then clap for herself still amazes me each time. And yet I miss the toothless grins of my new baby. The sweet smell of infant breath. The ability to snuggle her against me without her squirming away.

So I concentrate on what is to come -a birthday party, sentences, steps. I look forward to October and celebrating my little baby and the little girl that she is now.

And, of course, I am hard at work acquiring the monograms for her Big Day.

Deuce

Amidst the chaos of moving, unpacking, vacationing, and turning 30, my little girl is growing up. She will be 10 months old on Sunday and the thought of double digits in her "age" is bittersweet.

I love the little girl that she is becoming. Hearing "Mama" is as wonderful a sound as her giggles. Seeing her stand solo and walk b/w furniture with unneeded support from them is exhilarating. Her ability to high five and then clap for herself still amazes me each time. And yet I miss the toothless grins of my new baby. The sweet smell of infant breath. The ability to snuggle her against me without her squirming away.

So I concentrate on what is to come -a birthday party, sentences, steps. I look forward to October and celebrating my little baby and the little girl that she is now.

And, of course, I am hard at work acquiring the monograms for her Big Day.

Blip on the Screen

Things are s.......l......o.........w.........l........y returning to normal. We are starting to settle in our new house and enjoyed a double birthday (mine and the Mr.'s) at the beach. Posts will increase soon. Well, I hope. For now, all I can say is there's nothing like baby smiles and toes in the sand.

Blip on the Screen

Things are s.......l......o.........w.........l........y returning to normal. We are starting to settle in our new house and enjoyed a double birthday (mine and the Mr.'s) at the beach. Posts will increase soon. Well, I hope. For now, all I can say is there's nothing like baby smiles and toes in the sand.

Forwarding Address

We are spending this weekend packing for our big move on Tuesday. I'll be silent for a while, but I'll have plenty to share when I return.

Forwarding Address

We are spending this weekend packing for our big move on Tuesday. I'll be silent for a while, but I'll have plenty to share when I return.

M is for Monogram

I am very fond of my daughter's name. Her first name is classic and elegant. Her nickname undoubtedly suits her personality. Her middle names represent her roots, her family, and two strong, special women. It is quite a bit of name for such a wee girl, but I have the utmost faith that she will grow into it. Yes, I fancy her name indeed. Especially because it starts with the letter M.

Growing up, my mother and I shared the same first initial. Although this was confusing to some, it was glorious for one very crucial reason- monograms. Monograms!!! I do love monograms. I have used this embellishment in any way possible during the course of my years and am fairly certain this will not change as I age. My mother and I sharing the same first initial was not only something that created a bond, but made the sharing of items easier and multifunctional. Multifunctional is an important expression to us ladies. When we have an item that is multifunctional, we have much more justification for acquiring said item for our mutual benefit and enjoyment. Having shared this privilege with my own mother, I was eager to share a similar bond with my own little girl.

The first of our shared monogrammed items is a simple silver enhancer with a script M on it. I obtained it a few weeks after learning that our little bump was a she. Totally flabbergasted that I was having a little girl, I was absentmindedly scouting for a bauble that I could one day place around her neck. Something that was ours. Something that meant a just a bit more to the two of us. Something classic and elegant. Something that suited..... pearls.

When I saw the silver M reflecting light from its station upon a strand of exquisite pearls, I realized that what we shared was that M. We shared not only an initial, but a lifetime of memories and moments that would forever signify the women we were and would become. My life began with that M, shared between my mother and I, and now blazed the way for my daughter to create her own story. So much - all from the tiny letter M.

I have worn our M proudly upon the pearls my mother gave to me. I am looking forward to the day when my little M is gussied up with our bauble upon her own pearls. I know it won't be long, for time passes too quickly. But when that moment comes to pass, my M will be ready. She already has her pearls.



Her first pearls from Grandma - 10.11.2009

M is for Monogram

I am very fond of my daughter's name. Her first name is classic and elegant. Her nickname undoubtedly suits her personality. Her middle names represent her roots, her family, and two strong, special women. It is quite a bit of name for such a wee girl, but I have the utmost faith that she will grow into it. Yes, I fancy her name indeed. Especially because it starts with the letter M.

Growing up, my mother and I shared the same first initial. Although this was confusing to some, it was glorious for one very crucial reason- monograms. Monograms!!! I do love monograms. I have used this embellishment in any way possible during the course of my years and am fairly certain this will not change as I age. My mother and I sharing the same first initial was not only something that created a bond, but made the sharing of items easier and multifunctional. Multifunctional is an important expression to us ladies. When we have an item that is multifunctional, we have much more justification for acquiring said item for our mutual benefit and enjoyment. Having shared this privilege with my own mother, I was eager to share a similar bond with my own little girl.

The first of our shared monogrammed items is a simple silver enhancer with a script M on it. I obtained it a few weeks after learning that our little bump was a she. Totally flabbergasted that I was having a little girl, I was absentmindedly scouting for a bauble that I could one day place around her neck. Something that was ours. Something that meant a just a bit more to the two of us. Something classic and elegant. Something that suited..... pearls.

When I saw the silver M reflecting light from its station upon a strand of exquisite pearls, I realized that what we shared was that M. We shared not only an initial, but a lifetime of memories and moments that would forever signify the women we were and would become. My life began with that M, shared between my mother and I, and now blazed the way for my daughter to create her own story. So much - all from the tiny letter M.

I have worn our M proudly upon the pearls my mother gave to me. I am looking forward to the day when my little M is gussied up with our bauble upon her own pearls. I know it won't be long, for time passes too quickly. But when that moment comes to pass, my M will be ready. She already has her pearls.



Her first pearls from Grandma - 10.11.2009

How it all began....

Christmas morning carries an air of excitement for every little child. The tree is larger than life, with lights glimmering slightly brighter than the day before. Carefully wrapped packages beckon to be opened. Curiosity heightens as each oddly shaped parcel is delivered to the rightful owner Santa intended. Faces shine. Paper is hurriedly torn. Squeals erupt as treasures are revealed. Those were great mornings.

I remember clearly the joy of discovering ALF under the tree. The pure excitement of receiving not only Rainbow Brite, but her pal Patty O'Green. Stockings held the last morsel of surprise before breakfast. The afternoon would bring a trip to my grandparents house where the cycle would repeat with exuberance. I would make the journey with familiar anticipation. I knew that's where IT would be.

Gifts at my grandparent's house would reach from under the tree far into the floor. Boxes were always stacked into two piles by each child. One stack held colorful gifts of all shapes and sizes. The other stack held boxes that all appeared the same - the clothing boxes. Yet all of these boxes were not created equal. One of these seemingly ordinary shirt boxes contained, for me, the frock of the season.

One of them held my smocked dress.

Smocking itself has no inherent mystery. Women have worn it on their lovely gowns for centuries. It's origin is practical. Prior to the invention of elastic and spandex, how else would one allow for stretch in garments? Smocking was used for just that purpose. For me as a little girl, however, smocking was the necessary embellishment for the perfect dress. Whether it was ornamental or functional in its inclusion didn't matter. For me, it HAD to be there.

After all the boxes were emptied and the adults had concluded the exchange of their own treasures, I crept to my mother's side, dress clutched in hand. I listed numerous reasons why I needed to change into it: to check the size, to check the length, to see if it matched my shoes. Eventually, she conceded and I donned my prized dress as though I was the belle of the ball. I would admire myself in the mirror. Scarlett O'Hara, eat your heart out!

As the years passed, we all grew and matured. Gifts began changing as Christmas morning began adapting to our ages. The rituals were still the same, but some faces were added and some were missed terribly. I can't recall the exact year that I first missed my dress. I only recall realizing one morning that we weren't little kids anymore.

Now that I am grown, my boxes have taken different shapes. I have only one pile now. I delight in seeing smaller boxes labeled with my name rather than the shirt box I used to covet. Pearls and baubles replaced my smocking. Until this past Christmas.

For the first time in a long time, the tree at my parents house contained a shirt box. A coveted shirt box. The delight upon it's unveiling was a welcome friend. There it was in front of me. The frock of the season. Smocking for my daughter.

How it all began....

Christmas morning carries an air of excitement for every little child. The tree is larger than life, with lights glimmering slightly brighter than the day before. Carefully wrapped packages beckon to be opened. Curiosity heightens as each oddly shaped parcel is delivered to the rightful owner Santa intended. Faces shine. Paper is hurriedly torn. Squeals erupt as treasures are revealed. Those were great mornings.

I remember clearly the joy of discovering ALF under the tree. The pure excitement of receiving not only Rainbow Brite, but her pal Patty O'Green. Stockings held the last morsel of surprise before breakfast. The afternoon would bring a trip to my grandparents house where the cycle would repeat with exuberance. I would make the journey with familiar anticipation. I knew that's where IT would be.

Gifts at my grandparent's house would reach from under the tree far into the floor. Boxes were always stacked into two piles by each child. One stack held colorful gifts of all shapes and sizes. The other stack held boxes that all appeared the same - the clothing boxes. Yet all of these boxes were not created equal. One of these seemingly ordinary shirt boxes contained, for me, the frock of the season.

One of them held my smocked dress.

Smocking itself has no inherent mystery. Women have worn it on their lovely gowns for centuries. It's origin is practical. Prior to the invention of elastic and spandex, how else would one allow for stretch in garments? Smocking was used for just that purpose. For me as a little girl, however, smocking was the necessary embellishment for the perfect dress. Whether it was ornamental or functional in its inclusion didn't matter. For me, it HAD to be there.

After all the boxes were emptied and the adults had concluded the exchange of their own treasures, I crept to my mother's side, dress clutched in hand. I listed numerous reasons why I needed to change into it: to check the size, to check the length, to see if it matched my shoes. Eventually, she conceded and I donned my prized dress as though I was the belle of the ball. I would admire myself in the mirror. Scarlett O'Hara, eat your heart out!

As the years passed, we all grew and matured. Gifts began changing as Christmas morning began adapting to our ages. The rituals were still the same, but some faces were added and some were missed terribly. I can't recall the exact year that I first missed my dress. I only recall realizing one morning that we weren't little kids anymore.

Now that I am grown, my boxes have taken different shapes. I have only one pile now. I delight in seeing smaller boxes labeled with my name rather than the shirt box I used to covet. Pearls and baubles replaced my smocking. Until this past Christmas.

For the first time in a long time, the tree at my parents house contained a shirt box. A coveted shirt box. The delight upon it's unveiling was a welcome friend. There it was in front of me. The frock of the season. Smocking for my daughter.