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Being the Youngest- The Baby Book

By Trish Faber

     It was the winter of my eighth year and I’d just settled down on the couch with a steaming cup of hot chocolate.  Too cold to play outside, I thought what better way to kill a lazy Sunday afternoon then to immerse myself in a good book, a special book, a book all about me.  My baby book.  A book chronicling my existence for the past eight years.  My three older brothers had one, so did my sister.  Surely my book would be the best, filled to the brim with exciting stories of my birth, first Christmas and every milestone in between.  I snuggled under a wool blanket and set the book on my lap.  Funny, it still seemed quite new.  The spine had hardly been broken.  Probably my parents just being extra cautious, wanting the book to last a lifetime.

     I sighed and opened the first page.  There I was, cute as a button, lying buck naked on a blanket.  My name, date of birth, height and weight carefully printed underneath.  I felt special.  I turned the page.  My Christening.  The same white gown worn by all the babies in my family.  Four different pictures of me again looking cute and lying on a blanket.  The page filled in with dates and names of people who attended the ceremony, even the gifts.

     Satisfied, I flipped the page.  I was one year old.  One picture of me with cake on my face and in my hair.  Five pictures of me flopped in the middle of my siblings, a note scribbled underneath, “Danny (my older brother) was sick, canceled the big party and had just the family.  Tricia had fun smearing cake in her hair.”  Of course I laughed.  I scanned the page for a list of my presents or any other documentation of the day.  Nothing there.  Just empty lines where the information was supposed to go.  Mom and Dad must have forgotten.  I’m sure they meant to go back and fill in the blanks.  My second birthday would be better.

     Apparently I never turned two or three or four for that matter.  The pages were all blank save for a few scribbles here and there about me getting the measles or the chicken pox.  What could have happened?  I checked Danny’s book.  His was packed with pictures, hair clippings and certificates; there was even extra writing in the margins.  The other books were just as full.  The pages practically ripped from their spines from overuse.  I was confused.

     I hopped off the couch and headed to find my Mother for answers.  As soon as she saw the book in my hand and the tears forming in my eyes, she knew the gig was up.

“Honey I’m so sorry.  I wanted to fill everything in.  I really did but I just…”

“Is it because you don’t love me as much?”  I asked.

“Don’t love you as much?  Come here.”  I crawled onto her lap and burrowed my head in her chest soaking her shirt with my tears.  “Sometimes Mommy and Daddy get really busy taking care of you and your brothers and sister and they forget to do important things like write things down in your baby book.  They don’t mean to but it happens.  Next time I have a minute; I’ll go back and fill in all the blanks.  How does that sound?”  I nodded okay and ran off to play.

     To this day my baby book lies unfinished.  The result of being the youngest of five busy kids.  It’s alright though.  I’ve dealt with the trauma and moved on.  It’s only a book and my memories of my own childhood are so vivid, I could probably go back and fill in the blanks myself.  But I don’t have to.  See my Mom did keep her promise.  On my twenty-third birthday, she gave me fifteen detailed, double-sided, handwritten pages filled with stories and moments about my life.  Turned out being better then all the baby books put together.  And to think I’d once asked her if she didn’t love me enough.  Shame on me.