In an earlier post, I sent out a challenge to my mom: send me a picture of me-as-a-little-girl wearing a dress made out of the same fabric as a shirt I recently found at ATL.
She called me and said "I don't think we have any pictures of you wearing that dress."
I thought about it, and she was right. I don't think we have any pictures of me wearing that dress. Never mind that I have a romanticized memory of wearing it for what seems like an entire summer, visiting my cousins at my grandparents' house in Portland, OR and eating fresh blueberries off of a bush in their backyard.
It was probably the same summer where my grandmother bought me an entire Charleston Chew bar at a grocery store and then kept it in the freezer for me, doling it out piece by piece.
It may have been the same summer in which I ran around with another set of cousins at their home in Washington, re-enacting Grimms' Fairy Tales because we were dorks like that.
It was likely it was the same summer in which another uncle in Idaho (we were taking the extended-relatives tour) promised my sister and I that if we climbed to the top of Moscow Mountain we would find a McDonalds at its peak and he would buy us ice-cream cones. (We didn't believe him; we knew it was just an excuse to drag kids along on an extremely boring all-day nature walk, and no, he didn't buy us any ice cream at the end.)
But I know it was the summer in which, at the end of the vacation, my mom told me it was so good to see me running around and acting like a little girl instead of a like a miniature adult. ^__^
Here's the ATL shirt, again:
And here's the dress.
(Which my mother MADE. By HAND. Just so you know.)