The Baby Book of Burning Questions

Today is my birthday. And how should one always celebrate one’s birthday? By looking through one’s baby book, of course.

Wanna look over my shoulder?

Oh goody – I hoped you would.

(Originally shared May 2, 2010.)


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.

(Including me.)

(Mom, Would you like to come pick that picture up, please?)

Anyway. My baby book: IMG_9155

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 its 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 ALL up in my baby book, and I wasn’t in his book one. single. time.

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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 33, 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:

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Now. Back to me. As a child, I was always confused by the picture on the right:

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I just couldn’t understand how I was walking at one month old, but baby books don’t lie. So obviously, I was.

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.

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It’s almost as if the orange photo tint was some sort of aura that wafted off of hippyish people…

But as I continued through the book, I remembered why I was so upset about JC being in my baby book.There were whole pages of pictures of JUST him.IMG_9173In MY baby book!

Next are the pictures from my first Easter:IMG_9182
Correction. Pictures of my brother and my cousins on my first Easter.

My baby book, people!!!

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.

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At least JC was in smock. There’s always that.

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.IMG_9219
It’s almost as if they wanted to make sure I knew I was the middle child or something.

But.

Aside from my Middle Child issues, 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. We weren’t even in the same state when the shots were taken. The photos are from the Indianapolis 500, and brought unlimited hours of puzzlement and confusion to my childhood years.

There were three pictures:

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There was my Dad…

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My Dad’s friend’s wife…

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And my Dad’s friend.

Or, rather, my Dad’s friend’s shirt, since that’s all I ever noticed.

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What does that even mean?!

And what in the WORLD does it have to do with MY baby book?

Some questions, I fear, are best left unanswered.