Last weekend we painted our kitchen bright orange. As anybody who has ever painted anything knows, it sounded like a good idea at the time. Don't get me wrong...it's bright, but I love the color. It was more the four coats versus one, 24 hours versus 4, tantruming out of control toddler, dog with an orange tail, husband shooting dirty looks that left something to be desired.
Not wanting to waste my "good" clothes (which are really a myth when you have a 20 month old), I threw on some old shorts and a bright pink tank top. Later in the day I realized it was a pink tank-top I wore when I was in the hospital before Rip was born.
And because I was vaguely the color and consistency of an angel food cake after 6 weeks on hospital bed rest, I wore this bright pink tank-top and way too much blush to my last ultrasound before Rip was born.
I wore the same tank top in the weeks after my pregnancy, when life was almost all grey and a little hot pink was all I wanted.
When I got pregnant with Gracie, I wore my bright pink top in honor of the bright pink bundle I prayed and prayed for.
Maybe it was the paint fumes, but I started to think my shirt was a lot like my life. Here it was, albeit stretched out, a little faded, but still basically the same shirt. Here I was, a little stretched out, a little faded but still the same me. The girl who wore that pink shirt to an ultrasound almost three years ago could not have imagined what she was about to go through. The years between there and here were hard at best. But that same girl with a (painted) sweet dog, (screaming, but perfect) baby girl, (might want to kill me) loving husband and a (VERY bright) bright orange kitchen could not have imagined what she would one day be lucky enough to have.