I used to scoff when I saw color-coordinating mother/daughter pairs holding hands in the street and buzzing around the grocery store doing errands. “What is this, the Brady Bunch?” I’d think to myself, wondering why on earth any mom would purposely try to match her mini-me daughter (unless, of course, they were taking family pictures or attending a mother/daughter event that require that the other person be painfully easy to spot in a crowd).
Then, as I dressed Raven for church yesterday in this ruffly, one-shouldered number that just makes me want to look at her blue eyes all day long, it hit me—
We were totally matching.
Well, kind of.
Sure, our style of clothing was completely different and we were in different shades of blue, but we were basically color coordinated.
And, rather than march right back into my room and change (or, let’s be honest, march into Raven’s room and get clothes to change her, since she fits into virtually anything in her closet, unlike her mother), I decided that it was basically adorable that we matched and declared we needed mommy-daughter pics on the spot.
I have apparently become one of those moms.
In other news, yesterday was the first day I’d ever worn a brooch. The trend always seemed out of reach to me—good only for upscale fashion bloggers, stylish grandmothers (which is where, in fact, I’d gotten this yellow little number), and possibly the mother of the bride at a wedding. But yesterday morning, as I looked for some jewelry to wear (preferably something non-blue so that the color-coordination wouldn’t look TOO crazy), I came across this snowflake-shaped yellow brooch I’d inherited from my Grandma Austin, who passed away last year.
I think often of how much I wish my grandma could have met Raven—my grandma and I were always close, and I just know she would have been as smitten as we are with Raven’s bubbly smiles and chubby legs. My grandma was always meticulously put-together, each outfit with its coordinating jewelry and a swipe of her ever-present lipstick. Some days, when I don’t really feel like getting ready because I’m “not going anywhere,” I think of my grandma–who got ready every single day, even when she didn’t feel well or even when she wouldn’t be stepping one foot outside of her front door–and then I make myself take the ten or fifteen minutes to get myself put together (at least from the neck up, because, let’s be honest, I’m still in stretchy pants and t-shirts a lot of the time for easy nursing and easy crawling around on the floor).
Style and fashion and hair and makeup all can seem like such trivial things (and really, they sort of are…), but one thing is for sure–
I know I feel much more like my ideal self when I take the time to get ready in the morning.
And double points if I do so while coordinating with my adorable daughter and trying out a trend (even if I’m about five years late to the game).
