When Ali was born, my Mom allowed me to take out a semi-permanent loan of my baby book for comparison purposes.
And I’m quite positive that she is going to promptly cancel my loan after this post.
If not from this post, then in fear that I would one day post “The Bathtub Pic” of baby me, my brother JC, and my Dad.
Don’t worry, Mom. I know that no one wants to see that.
(Mom, Would you like to come pick that picture up, please?)
The poor book looks older than me. It’s missing its cover, the pages are all yellowed and pitiful, and the sticky that’s supposed to be holding the pictures and captions in place destickified years ago.
But I still love looking through it – I don’t remember any of the events pictured, since it stops before I got old enough for memory (really, I’m just impressed that I, as the second child, even HAVE a baby book – so no complaints regarding the longevity of it’s continuance), but what it does do is bring back memories of looking through it as a kid, and my thoughts about the book at that time.
For instance, my biggest beef as a child was that my brother was ALLLL up in my baby book, and I wasn’t in his book ONE. SINGLE. TIME.
When I was young, I just knew that my parents did this simply to spite me as the middle child, but as I’ve matured to the ancient age of 28, I do realize that he was around for my baby book, and I was not around for his.
And I can accept that.
And what helps me accept that is that I get to laugh at the way they dressed him. Sure, I was in smock, but he got to wear full German Lederhosen:
Now. Back to me. As a child, I was always confused by the picture on the right:
Then there are the hippy photos of my Mom, which coincidentally always had that orange-ish tint to them, something that none of the other pictures had.
I was relegated the the bottom corner of the page, not good enough to put in the cute cousins shots with the rest of them, I suppose.
And at least my little brother isn’t anywhere to be found in my baby book – I can hold onto that small victory, even if he wasn’t born until years after my baby book was yellowing with age.
Oh wait. Unless you skip to the very last page, where he can be found, in a photo taken years after all of the other photos.
It’s almost as if they wanted to make SURE I knew I was the middle child or something.
Aside from my Middle Child issues (which, by the way, I don’t REALLY have, just ask my Dad), the most puzzling page in my baby book was from the May after I was born.
I am nowhere to be found on this page, nor is my Mom. The photos were taken at the Indianapolis 500, and brought unlimited hours of puzzlement and confusion to my childhood years.
There were three pictures:
There was my Dad…
My Dad’s friend’s wife…
And my Dad’s friend.
Or, rather, my Dad’s friend’s shirt, since that’s all I ever noticed.
And what in the WORLD does it have to do with MY baby book?
Some questions, I fear, are best left unanswered.