A Letter to My Child About Your Unfinished Baby Book


Why I didn't finish your baby book via @lizzylit
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Dear darling,

I’m haunted by this nightmare where you come to me as an insecure preteen and ask, “Mom, can I see my baby book? I need some dates and things for a school project.”

Choking back tears of shame, I dig out a dusty blue and yellow book. You pluck it from my guilty hands. A few souvenirs and ragged coloring pages slip out. To you, they look random, unimpressive, disorganized, but I remember: That’s the first time you drew a circle. That smiley-faced blob there? The picture you drew of me on our third Mother’s Day. That thumbprint collage? Your first preschool art project.

unfinished baby book @lizzylit

You flip through, and I know what you’re seeing: A handful of haphazard photos, too many half-empty pages. I try to distract you with the highlights: There’s an ultrasound photo—that grainy peanut is your very first picture . . . There’s a coming-home-from-the-hospital shot; you’re swaddled, pink and scrunchy, in the striped hospital blanket . . . Look, twenty-six pictures from your epic first birthday party . . . A few play dates at the park . . . And then we skip ahead to your first day of preschool (that stain there? definitely raindrops, not tears) . . . er, one blurry shot from preschool graduation . . . Okay, let’s keep moving.

In the margins, you’ll find a few handwritten notes:

Seven weeks: Still not sleeping, but oh, that smile!

Five months: You must be teething. You drool through four outfits a day.

Eight months: You love bananas, your daddy, the dog, and screeching at the top of your lungs.

Eleven months: You lunged forward today, trying to pinch the dog. First step? Maybe?

Twenty-two months: You got into the magic markers. I need a new kitchen table.

Twenty-nine months: I wish I could give your pacifiers back. You miss them so much.

Three years: You got your first princess dress today. You smiled so big, I thought your cheeks might pop. 

Seven years old: Pinkeye AND lice on the same day. I’m still twitching.

You flip to the back pages. The tooth chart is woefully empty. I managed to jot down the month when your first tooth came in—not the day, I couldn’t remember which day—and then I drew a sad little frowny-face when it came back out again, five years later.

The how-we-celebrated-your-first-five-birthdays section? Well, I did a killer job on the first birthday—see the pictures? see the cake I spent three days researching on Pinterest and sculpting in the shape of Elmo?—after that, the birthday party pages are all blank.

Worst of all, I picture you flipping to the chart of firsts, that page where I’m supposed to write down every first from your First Year of Life, and even some milestones from your toddler years. Your baffled gaze runs down the page, finding only a few scattered notes. You’ll never know the exact date you spoke your first word, or which day that first pointy tooth poked through, or how much you weighed at your eighteen-month doctor visit.

And I picture your expression crumpling in confusion, an accusation etched in your eyes as you glare at me, mystified and hurt: You don’t love me enough. If you really loved me, you would have made me a baby book I could be proud of. You would have written down all of the things so we could remember them. Didn’t you care?

And I’ll try to explain, to help you understand:

I didn’t write down exactly which day you spoke your first word because I was too busy clapping, too busy savoring the sweet sound of that voice I’d been trying to coax out of you for so long. You were so excited, so proud of yourself, and you wanted me to listen. And I did.

There wasn’t time to mark down which day your first tooth came in because you were so fussy that you wouldn’t let me put you down. You just wanted me to snuggle you and rock you and sing to you. And I did.

I forgot to record how much you weighed at every doctor visit, because after all the prodding and shots, you were always tired and grumpy, and so was I. And so I got my coffee and you got your chocolate milk and we called it a day. We just cuddled on the couch and watched Elmo until we both felt better. And we did.

I didn’t write down what we ate at your second birthday party, because I’d learned my lesson from the first party—a blur, the whole grand cake-sculpting affair—so for the next few years, I got a store-bought cake, inflated balloons with my own breath, blew some bubbles, and crazy-danced with you and a few friends. I put down my camera and watched joy twinkle in your eyes while you played silly games and tore open gifts. When it was all over, you wanted to ignore your presents, ball up the wrapping paper, and have a wrapping-paper fight. And we did.

I didn’t actually forget to take pictures of your preschool graduation. It’s just, my eyes were so cloudy, I couldn’t focus the lens right. But I tried.

And every time I found a spare rainy afternoon and thought to myself, “I could catch up on the baby book today,” a chubby fist tugged on my pant leg, a sunbeam smile flashed up at me, and a little voice lisped, “Come play with me, Mommy.” And I did.

Why I didn't finish your baby book


If you enjoyed this post, you might also enjoy:

On Pinkeye, Lice, and Love

You Can Go Now, Mommy

These Days of Small Things

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This article first appeared on The Huffington Post. 

 

Author: Elizabeth Laing Thompson VIEW ALL AUTHORS POSTS

Elizabeth works from home as a writer, editor, diaper changer, baby snuggler, laundry slayer, not-so-gourmet chef, kid chauffeur, floor mopper, dog groomer, and tantrum tamer. She is always tired, but it's mostly the good kind.

9 comments

Comments
  • Amy L. Sullivan June 8, 2015 at 7:25 am

    What a sweet, sweet post. Even if you don’t write another word in your girl’s baby book, I say you print this post out.

    One of my best friends knows I am not the baby book making type. Therefore, she made empty baby books with colorful pages for both of my kids. I just had to slip in pictures. It is totally wonderful.

  • Linda Benedict June 8, 2015 at 8:11 am

    You are incredibly talented, Elizabeth!

  • Geri June 8, 2015 at 9:33 am

    You told me that I would cry with this one and – “I did”. And I now feel better about the 4 very unfinished baby books that I have. Thank you!!

  • Debbie June 8, 2015 at 9:43 am

    Amazing! As tears stream down my cheeks while laughing I am amazed at this!! Love love love it!!

  • arunima gomes June 8, 2015 at 12:14 pm

    hi ELISABETH!!!ALL I CAN SAY IS THAT I AM SO COMFORTED COZ I HAVE BEEN GIVEN 4 BABY BOOKS AND HAVE NOT MANAGED TO DO ANY JUSTICE TO ANY ONE OF THEM!!!LOVE YOUR WRITING!

  • Mary Collins June 8, 2015 at 6:59 pm

    What a beautiful recollection of all of the bits and pieces and joys of raising a child. When this child reaches adulthood they will be blessed to know how much you love them.

  • Lauren M June 9, 2015 at 12:04 am

    Thank goodness for Facebook is all I have to say. It’s often the only recorder of what happens in Rory’s life! Such a touching post by the way. That stinking baby book stresses me out!

  • Lynn Losito June 10, 2015 at 4:37 am

    you are inspiring me ,and I am sure many other mothers! Love your writing and keep up the great work! Your parents sure did a great job raising you!,,,,

  • Wendy Kim June 15, 2015 at 7:17 pm

    Thanks for this post! I can feel guilty about what I’m not doing, as a mom. I truly believe, however, that the times where we are truly present with our kids are the times they will cherish, not how many scrapbooks we put together for them. Thanks for the reminder!

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