To All the Mommies Who Meant to Keep Baby Books, but Didn’t

By Cristin

To All the Mommies Who Meant to Keep Baby Books, but Didn’t

Dear daughter,

I came across your baby book the other day in my nightstand. A sense of guilt washed over me, and I quickly closed the drawer.

You see, you are now almost two years old. And that book that I received at my baby shower, in which I had  promised myself I would painstakingly fill out every minor detail? It’s almost empty. There are four pages filled out, the last one of which is titled, “Baby’s First Day.” Sorry, kid, you have nothing written down about your second day. Or any day thereafter.

How could I do this? How could I know how much I envied other kids growing up, whose parents kept thorough and precise documentation of their every waking moment, and yet still fail so horribly when I myself set out to do so?

So, kid, in the absence of anything pretty and bound, here I will attempt to address some of the questions left unanswered in your book:

I have no clue what your first 100 words were. Or even your first ten. But I know you said, “Da-da!” first, and then you used it to tell on your father when he knocked something over in the furniture store the next day.

I don’t know the day you took your first steps. I didn’t write it down. But I do know that my heart was filled with a sense of pride and wonderment. And I know that, instead of walking from your father to me, you veered off and went your own path. My heart ached with sadness at not being the one you ran to, but also with pride at your independence and sense of adventure.

I don’t know what your first ten foods were. I know you ate carrots first, and were appalled we ever had the audacity to put them in front of you, but later opened up and became a very easy, healthy eater. I hope this stays with you, because a love of healthy eating will make so many things easier.

I don’t know the exact order and days your first visitors came. I was so sleepy and broken those first few days. To be honest, labor and birth were way harder than I was expecting. But I know they came, by the dozens – grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, wonderful friends, all to wish you well and to tell you that they are here to support you in this crazy journey. To this day I picture their faces, looking at you in awe, standing next to me in support, and I feel like you and I are invincible.

I don’t remember your first outing, aside from your doctor visits. But I know that you were born into a horrible heat spell that kept the two of us inside for weeks, wearing nothing but t-shirts, sweating even with the air conditioning on, and yearning to go outside. I cursed those trapped days in the moment, but now wonder if they were something we needed to share, together, to get to really know each other and get situated with our new roles on this planet.

I didn’t write down the date of your first laugh. But I know that your father worked so hard for that laugh. He would tickle your toes and kiss your belly. He would put things on his head and make cats dance against their will. The laugh finally came one night in the kitchen when we were least expecting it, as your daddy made a silly face at you for about the thousandth time in your life. He and I were so overcome with happiness that it felt like our hearts would burst. The feeling that overtook me when, after months of wondering what your sense of humor would sound like, your emotions aligned with ours and we shared the same feeling all together, as a family – that is something I will remember for the rest of my life.

I don’t remember your first book. Which is a shame, because it’d be so sweet to read it to you years from now, and coo, “This is the first book we read together!” (In this imaginary sequence of events, you bring it to school for Show & Tell, and all the kids are in awe that your mommy kept your first book, and all the moms are super impressed. You also pass it along to your future child. It’s really quite touching.) But… alas. I have no clue what it was. But I know you love snuggling up in my chest at night and watching as I turn the page, your hand ever so lightly resting on mine, your freshly washed hair sweet under my breath. And I know that I sit there in those moments and try to take it all in, remembering that life is fleeting, and you will never be this small or need me this much ever again.

I’m sure I will continue this trend of not recording dates, times, measurements, names. But in doing so, the important thing to know is that these memories are not gone. They may not be in a pretty paper book, for you to reference through the years, but they are permanently etched inside me. I have your baby book, right here in my heart. 

And, in a way, that’s a good thing. It means when you’re older you’ll have one more reason to call your mommy.

Love,

Mom