It’s neatly folded, all the matching parts there, ready to be put on display. But the thing is, they don’t really match

Our new baby girl’s eyelids are gently locked as she slumbers, her rose-colored, crinkled ears and tiny fists hanging two inches above the mattress. She’s going to need clothing beyond the one stretchy we took her home in from the hospital. I can’t wait to pull out Gittel’s box of lace ruffled dresses and jeggings. We’ve given most of it away by now, but I saved a few special things. Like the kiddush outfit: a pink knit sweater with matching pants and hat. I think there were booties, too, which she never wore because her feet were so tiny.

There’s a pile of bins in Yaakov’s room and I know it’s hiding there inside one of them. So one day I search and sort and make piles of what we could still use, what to toss, what’s cute but the wrong season.

And there it is — the kiddush outfit. It’s neatly folded, all the matching parts there, ready to be put on display. But the thing is, they don’t really match. The hat and the booties and the pants are all cotton-candy light pink, but the sweater....