Little Clothes
I think about Clover and Murphy’s clothes more than one might expect, more than feels practical, and yet it feels entirely natural to me, like making the bed in the morning or lighting a candle before dusk. It is never just about what they will wear, but about where we are going, how the day might unfold, how long we’ll be gone, how much they’ll move, and what the air will feel like on their skin when we leave the house versus when we come back home.
I think about how they will look together without looking identical, how their clothes can speak to one another quietly, harmonizing rather than shouting, echoing one another in tone or texture without becoming too matchy, too obvious. I think about fabrics constantly, what will breathe, what will soften as the day goes on, what will hold up to grass-stained knees and pockets full of rocks, what will comfort rather than constrict. I think about temperature not just in numbers, but in reality: the cold shade in the morning, the warmer car ride home, the way the afternoon sun sneaks in unexpectedly.
And then there’s the practical rhythm layered beneath it all. Do these clothes still fit? Will they fit Murphy next? How long before they don’t fit at all? What will happen to them then?
This is the part I didn’t anticipate thinking about quite so often, the after. The bins and bins of baby clothes that now live quietly in storage, folded carefully, each piece holding a season, a version of my boys that no longer exists except in memory. They are not an issue, not really, but they are a reckoning. A gentle but undeniable acknowledgment that my babies were once babies, and that time does not ask permission as it moves forward.
When I open those bins, love pours out of me in waves. The kind of love that feels physical. The kind that tightens your chest and softens you all at once. Every tiny sweater, every worn-in onesie, every soft cotton pant carries the weight of firsts, first laughs, first steps, first ordinary days that turned out to be everything. I hold onto them not just for what they are, but for what they witnessed.
Someone once told me, almost casually, that they weren’t a nostalgic person. I remember feeling something inside me crack open in quiet disbelief, as if a small part of my soul mourned for them. How could that be? How could someone not return to meaningful things in their mind and heart, not revisit them, not smile at what once was? It felt like a language I didn’t speak, and truthfully, one I didn’t want to learn. Time would prove that instinct right.
So here I am now, in this season, surrounded by beautiful, meaningful things that once clothed my children when their hands were smaller and their voices softer. Will I gift them to a dear friend one day? Maybe. Will I have another child? Doubtful. Will I keep them, tucked away carefully, waiting for a future I can’t quite see yet, perhaps for grandchildren who don’t yet exist? Most likely.
For now, I fold them with intention. I organize them neatly. I store them safely. There is comfort in knowing they are held, protected, and loved still. Comfort in believing they will be used again, touched again, part of another chapter yet to come.
If you’re curious about how I dress the boys day to day, the pieces I reach for, the brands I love, the fabrics I trust, and how I build their wardrobes with both beauty and practicality in mind, you can find all of those details over at
That’s where I share the specifics.
This, here, is the heart behind it all.