I remember the first time I wore this shirt. It was the day of Chris' brother's baptism in October 2009, and we had flown into San Diego that morning for fall break. My feathers were a little rustled up from air travel, and I needed a shower, but I felt pretty enough albeit a little sticky when I paired it with a pink floral skirt I had thrifted before I spent a summer in Belize. Chris' mom asked me to take photos of the baptism, and I had no idea how to use the big camera and did quite the horrible job. Somehow her postpartum hormones were very forgiving as they always are (note to self: beg her to write a book on how to not let your hormones take over because I need that in the self-help aisle ASAP). After the baptism, we gathered outside for family photos, and I consciously stepped back to hide behind family friends to avoid the whole awkward should-the-girlfriend-be-in-the-family-photo situation. Better to just nip that flowering hope in the bud and casually take photos from afar.
Twirl, jump and dance went my whole heart and being when this happened in spite of my attempts at shying away:
And now today, I'm sticky from the heat and busting out of that same shirt as my body grows with that former boyfriend's third baby with Baby #1 and Baby #2 snoring, and it feels pretty neat.