Crazy Eight

Today, hubby, kiddo and I will head over to Miami Beach Botanical Gardens and stand in the same spot we stand in every November 7. Why? Because eight years ago today, I walked down the aisle there and met David Marc Harris under the chuppah my mother made us. A bouquet of tuberose (my favorite) and ย ivory roses in my hand, my long veil billowing in the breeze, the most amazing man waiting for me: it was a perfect day. Each year since, we go back to the spot we stood in the day we got married and take a picture. There’s one of me pregnant, and ones since with kiddo by our side.ย I planned every aspect of my wedding with my mom. She was there with me the day I picked out my dress: a simple, custom-made gown in silk chiffon and Belgian lace from Daisy Tarsi on Miracle Mile. And she insisted I give up my obsession with killer heels and wear sensible shoes. So I did. Under my little train were ivory satin bedroom slippers with a kitten heel. After the wedding and reception, also at the garden, my dress was filthy from dragging the ground while dancing. And my shoes were trashed. When I took my dress to the dry cleaner the following week to have it preserved, the woman behind the counter said, “By the looks of your dress you had a great time.” Indeed I did. And, eight years later, the good times keep coming.

{This is year two. Year one is on actual film, pre the digital camera age. I need to find it and add it in.}

{Year three: I’m preggo here and sick as a dog, but I managed a smile for the camera (and then threw up right after. Ew.)}

{Year four: with kiddo!}

{Year five: Milly and I have on matching dresses. Oh yes we did.}

{Year six: I made the whole family match. They still love me despite this.}

{Year seven: The garden is closed on Mondays, so we took a pic in front of the gate.}