The days seemed to go by so slow, but your first year felt like it flew by in the blink of an eye. Your baby book stayed in the same place, on your shelf, in your room. I applaud the mom that completes the keepsake, recording all of the milestones along the way. Frankly, your mom is not that mom.
I don't need to know our reaction the first time we saw you. There are no words to describe our pure joy the moment you finally entered the world.
I don't need to know your first visitors. Every loved one that was dear to us came to see your beautiful face.
I don't need to know when you started sleeping through the night. I'll never forget how big of a champ you were at 12 weeks sleeping through the entire night, because I still brag about it to this day.
I don't need to know the day you cut your first tooth. We all thought you were an early bloomer with the toothy grin between the 3-4 month range works, right?
I don't need to know the first words you spoke. I vividly remember those babbles like it was yesterday, unfortunately they weren't the words I wanted to hear. "Dada!"
I don't need to know when you took your first steps. I was still trying to corral you in the living room using pillows as barriers, so the longer it took was fine by me.
I don't need to know when you started using the potty like a big boy. That moment outlives the baby books, and please nobody remind me of this time.
I don't need to know what kind of mom I am just because you don't have a baby book. Trust me, by the way you give me those hugs and hold my hand I already know. Sometimes when I walk into your room and put your laundry away I see the baby book still sitting up there. I've even thought to myself, "I could just go fill in the blanks," but that would defeat the purpose. Those moments were happening, and instead of grabbing a pen to jot down the details of your first steps, I was catching you before you fell face first into the table.
The truth behind your baby book is that there isn't one. It's unfinished, empty, and might as well not exist. Even admitting it out loud makes me cringe, but for superficial reasons. In all honesty, there aren't enough pages to hold the memories I have of you during your first years. I won't need to open a book up to relive all of the special moments, because they are already with me. When you turn the pages of bare prompts and fill-in the blanks unfilled, you will still love me just the same.
Now the hundreds of bathtub pictures on my hard drive? That's another story.
