Who's That Girl

Like any proud bride, I have several wedding portraits displayed around my house. They are beautiful moments frozen in time - memories of love, lights, cameras and glamour.

Looking at them, I can feel the butterflies and the tears that I couldn't prevent as I walked down the aisle. I can see the loving looks, and feel the hugs and kisses. I can hear the first and last dances as the band played until the wee hours of the morning. I can taste the champagne and the icing on the cake. I can smell the flowers and my perfume. I can feel the sun (and the heat) as we took one last picture at Mellon Park. I can see the ballroom doors opening and the most opulent gift from my hardworking parents unveiled. I can see my ever-growing family. All my friends. The dress. The hair. The makeup. Love, perfectly posed as Purvis directed, toasted with expensive champagne.

Mary is in a phase where she loves identifying who or what is in a picture. I point. She tells me what she sees.
Meow. Meow.
Dog.
Mooo.
Nana.
Apo.
(Opa, honey.)
Mimi.
Oh! Oh! Yaya.
(Lyla, close enough.)
TRUCK!
BUS!
TRAIN!
Daddy.
And ...
And ...
And who's that, Mary?
Who's that girl?

That's where she goes blank. That's when she wants to go downstairs and color again. She is stumped and thus the name game is over.
That's Mommy, honey. Mommy.
She gives me a once over. ''Mommy,' she says as she points to me. She looks at the picture again and thinks, riiiiight. I try not to take offense, but I can't help but think, do I look so different?

Maybe it's because she can't imagine my baby bump or baby boobs fitting into Vera Wang.
Maybe it's because she's never seen my last single girl shoes.
Maybe it's because my hair is never down, and certainly never looks as good as it did on that day.
Maybe it's because she's not wriggling her way in between Mommy's and Daddy's arms.
Or maybe it's because she sees Daddy's queen as a little less dressed up. And the love that her Mom and Dad share every day as something less formal - more down to earth. Something that is celebrated less royally, and committed to more quietly.

Three years later, a baby and a half later, I still look back on September 3, the days leading up to it, and the glamorous honeymoon that followed, as best evers. I look at our pictures as if they can't be topped. And I wonder if I will ever look quite that good again.

Maybe. Maybe not. But the thing is, the every day 'I dos' - the offerings, thank yous, embraces, jokes, and I love yous, squeezed in between early mornings, busy work days, and those dreaded cries in the middle of the night, are sometimes more beautiful than couture. And I know that when Mary looks close enough, she'll recognize the smile of the girl in the picture. It's the same one that Daddy's given Mommy each day he has shared with her.

Lo.