And now, for something completely different

I am my mother's only child and as such, I have the unique responsibility of owning no fewer than 1,257 handmade, hand smocked, hand embroidered, hand sewn dresses that were mine as a child. Most of the dresses were made by my grandmother; some were simply handmade and purchased at an upscale boutique by the aforementioned grandmother. Believe me, this burden can be rather heavy sometimes. For instance, the dresses have to be worn by my daughter (s). And they must be worn within a certain time frame, owing to the nature of the dress itself (short sleeve, long sleeve, spring, bunnies, snowmen, etc.) or to its size (nb, infant, toddler, etc.) And since there are so many dresses, I have been in a constant state of anxiety since GG1 was born in 2003. A lot of dresses, one girl baby at a time, and numerous photos that must be taken because, and I quote,"You wore that dress to ______________ and if you don't get (whichever daughter is the right age) to wear the dress to ________________ then I don't know how I'll survive" are pretty common phone calls from my mother when she assesses her mental inventory of heirloom dresses and declares that The Time Has Come Yet Again.

So the next time Key comes to our house she brings no less than eleven dresses on tiny little hangers that were also mine and she has doggedly clung to for the past thirty years. My girls, at least the two older ones, know what's coming next.  It's agonizing, to say the least.

• Step one: try the dress(es) on. And they all have teensy buttons and hems that need work and they have to be ironed and no you can't raise your arms yet because I haven't finished and stand here and where are your shoes and I think you need a slip, where is it? 
• Step two: stand solemnly while the dress is adjusted and your grandmother raves about your beauty, possibly wiping a tear from her cheek. Your mother is non-committal since she hated the dress in 1982 when she wore it and she hates it now. It was ugly then and it's ugly now. But your grandmother is more powerful than your mother and so your mother has to put up with it, too. Suck it up, Buttercup. That's my motto, especially where hand smocked dresses are concerned.
• Step three: picture time. Assemble the supplies needed to fix your hair, keep your shoes clean, and make sure your face is scrubbed. If you're lucky, we can just take pictures in the back yard. If you're unlucky, we have to go to a park or, worst-case scenario, schedule an appointment with a professional photographer so that other people can witness your humiliation.
• Step four: Troop back inside and take the dress off. And it's probably dirty now, since most likely you swung on the swing a bit while Key and Mommy were discussing what tree provided the prettiest backdrop. So now Key will spend the next three hours lovingly hand washing the dress(es) in the sink and telling stories of how beautiful Mommy looked in the dress many moons ago and how she is sure that we did not get a good picture that day and we should have gone to a different park or taken pictures from a different angle.
• Step five: picture review. When the proofs get back from the photographer, or I download the pics to my computer if I took them, we must review each and every picture and agonize over every detail that is Wrong and Not Right. I think they're all fine and my girls look perfect. Then, if we are at Key's house, we pull out the old photo albums of me wearing the dress(es), because Key is convinced that we did not capture just the right shot or take enough pictures. Oddly enough, I look the same in all the old pictures, regardless of which dress I am wearing or how old I am: stiff and uncooperative. I am grimacing and tugging, fidgeting and sweating, my hair is puffy in odd places and my socks are bunching around my ankles. Compared to me, my daughters are angels dropped from heaven in hand smocked dresses. Key sighs, strokes the terrible pictures of me, and murmurs, "So cute, but you just wouldn't do right."
• Step six: drink a beer and thank my lucky stars that hand smocked dresses are not currently in vogue for adults or I would be even more miserable right now.

Now that you have some idea of my beleaguered association with heirloom dresses, I present to you, pictures of GG3 in My Baptism Dress that was worn by me on Christmas Day, 1977, at my own personal Baptism. I was apparently a tiny dollop of a thing since all the pictures taken show my mother clutching what appears to be a gourd wearing an heirloom dress. My older girls both had to wear the dress when they were infants, as well, but I don't have copies of those pics on my computer. So you just get to look at GG3 and imagine what my older girls looked like. Pretty much just like GG3, only they were both crying in all their pics and GG3 is only moderately unhappy in some of hers. Enjoy and be happy that you are not my daughter or your number would be up next and I have a pink gingham sundress with balloons smocked into the yoke with your name on it.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, MOS escaped all of this torture because my mother-in-law did not like hand-smocked clothes for little boys so mercifully, the only clothes that she saved from GH are cute little overalls and one slightly regrettable sailor suit. 

The preparation is torture. Torture, I tell you.

I stick my tongue out at you and your pitiful photographic efforts! Thhhhbbbbtttt!

 

Reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaching for a flower. 

I am so adorable. You cannot even handle my adorableness. 

Making her escape....you won't get far, kid. Your dress will get itchy, soon. That lace is annoying.

I hope you have a greater appreciation for what I go through for both my mother and my blog. Don't worry, there are plenty more dresses that need immortalizing. Wait until I show you the ones of my older girls wearing my grandmother's dress. That'll make you tear up. And not in a good way.