The expression you see is me trying to get the seven-year-old David to think like Patrick Demarchelier, or Richard Avedon, or Horst, or somebody who can make a person look like a Rowan model.
I am LOVING this sweater. Last night, after eleven hours of interstate hauling in the nouvelle mom bomb with two boys, a truck-drivin hubbo, and eight hundred pounds of stuff including three bent fishing poles and half a gallon of leftover tequila, it was a complete pleasure to find your box sitting on the table.
Here are the things I notice in particular:
RAGLANS. Have never tried them. They’re so perfectly seamed.
SEAMS. Mattress stitch perfection.
SLEEVES. Exactly the correct length. Why no extreme length? I was kind of hoping for the opportunity to whack off some excess.
And of course, the Beginnings Nursery School tote bag could not be more guinea pig hilarious.
You’ll pack me away in a pine box one day in my Kelly, which by then will be knee length and pale purple due to its 432 washings. “Well, she looks GOOD,” the mourners will say as they pass by, and you will sneak a hand out to see how All Seasons Cotton feels when it’s forty years old.
Thank you ever so much. I’ll swap piecework with you any day.