Two years ago, for a Christmas present for all of the immediate family members, I created a book about the girls. It was 24 pages long, in full color, with big glossy pages chock full of photos and accompanying text about milestones (first words, the age when they got their first tooth, when they took their first steps) as well as little anecdotes about trips they’d taken, their favorite outings, their earliest hobbies. It was a hit with the family, and I kept one archival copy for us (although, to be honest, I have no idea where it is right now).
The other day, as I was cleaning off my desk, heaped with years worth of miscellaneous papers, I came across the final draft of the book, printed on our home printer in basic black toner. It’s hard to make out the fine details of the photos in the dark copy, but as soon as the girls saw it, they recognized themselves. I’ve been reading them that book every night for bedtime for the past few days.
I don’t know about other kids, but mine just love hearing about what they were like as babies, or even just a year ago. They love stories about funny things they did or the quirky way they used to mispronounce certain words (and each other’s names). They both have the book memorized by now, and have developed their own narration to accompany it: “That’s when we were in Hawaii, and grandpa bought me that shovel, and that’s Daddy’s old phone that I used to play on, and that’s me drinking a smoothie from the place we never go anymore. Oh, and I remember that shirt!”
It makes me feel better about never doing a baby book for either of them. Between the photo book covering their early years, and this blog, maybe I’ve done as much, or even more, than a baby book would have.