So, I got my daughter’s baby book done this weekend. Pretty impressive, considering she’ll be three in May. Whoops.
I have made two scrapbooks / memory books prior to this one. Full disclosure: I am a bit embarrassed about my love for scrapbooking supplies and pictures, but I had to give in to the unbridled desires of patterned paper and adhesives. The heart wants what it wants. And I needed to get this damn book done. I’m not sure if it’s the actual act of making the books, or the obsession with the (organized) hoarding of stickers. It’s most likely a result of being a sticker-collecting kid of the 1980s — stickers were serious business for me as a pre-teen. And I feel the same about them now, apparently, because when I opened one of the boxes that I keep these supplies in, I realized that I had a lot to work with. I collected a lot more stickers and ribbon in my adulthood than I had thought. JOY. Let’s do this thing.
I initially began the project a couple of years ago and then put it down, planning to come back to it sooner than I actually did. This weekend I decided to drag everything downstairs and set up on the dining room table because I have been a little disappointed in my overuse of electronic devices and thought it might be time for a break from them. Looking back, it was a good decision, because I actually created something in the time I would have played several rounds of Scramble, trolled Facebook, posted on Instagram, and pored over blogs. I was able to use CP’s nap time to sip (guzzle) coffee, sort through old pictures, and finally glue those ID bracelets and birth card from the hospital to pretty pieces of cardstock. Oh, and don’t worry about me … I had the rest of the weekend to catch up on missed Facebook statuses and Instagram pictures.
When my daughter got up from her nap on Saturday, she came downstairs and I showed her the book. She flipped through pages that included ultrasound photos and snaps of me pregnant — pictures right up to the day we brought her home from the hospital. She was fascinated. I guess I didn’t really think about what her reaction to this book might be as I was gluing and taping, or even the fact that she would be looking at it. My focus was on completing an unfinished task. But it was really cool to watch her process the idea of Mommy getting “bigger and bigger” and then seeing a little newborn — “that’s me!” And it spurred conversation between my husband and I regarding our own childhood pictures. I recall growing up with just one banged up old photo album. And I remember looking though that thing a million times. (Apparently seeing one’s Dad in jean cutoffs and work boots drinking a Miller High Life never gets old.) My husband remembers his family only having a handful of photos. In an era where I snap and delete dozens of photos in the course of a week, while the bulk of my pictures go unviewed because they’re stored on a hard drive, I might have lost the sense of nostalgia and magic that pictures hold.
So I hauled out the two other memory books I made when husband and I were just dating. My daughter was interested in the pictures of Mom and Dad, but especially so in those of our old dog that passed away years ago. She spent the weekend flipping through these books and reminding me of what a good dog Juliet was.
Next on the to-do list: the wedding album. A trip to
Mecca Michael’s may be in order.