On the day my mother and I took my son Jordan for his first shots, we cried during the whole procedure, oblivious to the fact that we were providing comic relief to the bored staff at the pediatrician’s office. We clung to one another sobbing, as the baffled nurse did her job. I remember my mother saying between sobs, “He doesn’t even know what’s coming.” Afterward, the nurse placed two, cartoon bandaids on his thighs, and sent us on our way. When I removed them later on, my mother asked if she could keep them. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing!  

“Of course, I’m going to save these. I saved every little thing of yours when you were a baby in your book,” she said. 

She was referring to the baby book she kept for me since the day I was born. Going way beyond the call of duty of storing pertinent data, such as weight and immunization records, she turned ordinary record keeping into an art form.         

My baby book, in existence since 1971, has seen better days. The cover, in mother of pearl, is now barely held together by two long strips of masking tape. The title “Our Baby” is etched in faded gold letters. It must have been beautiful when my aunt gave it to my mother. Wearing a silly hat made solely out of a paper plate and gift ribbons (a tradition that has survived the test of time), my mother holds it up proudly in a photo taken at her baby shower.    

From the very first page, I can tell my mother took her role of documenting my every sneeze, quite seriously--all fifty photos of my early infant stages contain no less than two sentences of thoughts my mother swore I was having with every click of the camera. For example, in one picture, I am dressed in my white Christening outfit, against the royal blue, satin background that is a 70s-style bedspread. The caption, directly below it, reads, “If I pretend to be asleep, Dad might stop taking so many pictures of me.” Another says, “Here I am, all dressed in yellow, and my parents still don’t stop taking pictures. They’re really nuts over me, huh?” For sixty pages, these captions continue to appear, each one the evidence of my mother’s wit and attention to detail.     

There are two possible explanations for my mother’s devotion to the book.  She had way too much time on her hands with me being her only child, or I really was that perfect, non-colicky baby she always boasted about to her friends and family. She dedicated equal time to bottle feedings, diaper changes and notations in the book. It was a creative skill, maybe an escape from the daily chores that accompany running a home and raising a child.      

Growing up, I must admit this was all pretty amusing and confusing to me.  Yet, I was fascinated by the picture of my foot that she had traced on plain white paper, and the clippings from my first haircut. Over the years, nail clippings from my first manicure, taped to a bright pink, heart-shaped envelope, have disappeared. Whenever I would wander off into my room with the book, she would make me promise that I would not lose, rip or change the order of anything. The baby book, with all of its interesting contents, was undoubtedly the impetus for my rushed desire to learn to read--I wanted to discover for myself what she had written under all of those photos. I knew the donor of every toy I played with, who attended my birthday parties, and the circumstances surrounding the appearance of my first tooth (it was discovered by my father, while my mother claimed it was probably just a noodle from the soup she was feeding me).          

Now, the mother of two boys, I feel the pressure to follow in her footsteps, and perfect the art she has mastered through time. With my first son, Jordan, I diligently recorded all of the usual information, such as first gifts and time of birth. In a poor attempt to mimic my mother’s unique style, I even added little messages to some photos (none of them from telepathic sessions with my diaper-clad offspring, however). The first few pages of my son’s baby book contain plenty of insight, and little extras--a note written in the preschool scribble of his four-year-old cousin, and his birth announcement in my company’s newsletter. The middle of the book shows a marked decline in annotations. My second son’s baby book is the Anne Geddes “Baby Record.” Sadly, Nicolas’ baby book reflects the all too common truth about parents of multiple children--I just don’t have enough time to write as much, or with as much detail, as I would like. For this, I get an “F” in “Baby Books 101”. Frustrated, my mother has decided to keep her own baby books for both of my sons, including used bandaids, first onesies and other paraphernalia.  

I once questioned my mother as to the origin of her baby archiving skills. She recalled that as a teenager, she preferred to spend her time cutting out photos of babies from magazines, rather than doing regular teenage things, like chatting on the phone. Whenever she saw a pregnant woman on the street, or on the bus, she would get tears in her eyes, irrationally fearing the worst--that she would not be able to conceive children one day. When her fear was completely eradicated by a bouncing baby girl, weighing 6 pounds 9 ounces, her joy manifested itself on the pages of my baby book.  

Perhaps Anne Geddes says it best in the beginning pages of her baby record: “I am frequently asked why I photograph babies so often, and where my ideas come from. Little babies are indeed my inspiration, and I cannot imagine a photographic life without them playing a major part in it. Where this special love for babies comes from I cannot tell you, and I have spent much time searching for an answer myself. All I know is that they are all perfect little human beings in their own ways, and we should all take the time to cherish them, especially while they are very small.” Like Geddes, my mother’s love for babies, is evident in her work.       

Although a few pictures of my baby book are missing, (some made it into the hands of ex-boyfriends from my past), it is still complete in its original purpose, and just one of the many ways my mother has proven her love for me throughout my life. Somehow, she knew that I would one day marvel about some of the things that made up our daily routine. Besides, how else would I know that my first act of rebellion was to knock over the table lamp that was next to my crib?   

Author's Biography

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