The other day, a well-meaning mommy friend asked what I was
doing for Emma’s scrapbook.
”
Well, I haven’t exactly started one yet,
”
I told her, looking down at the ground.
The other day, a well-meaning mommy friend asked what I was doing for Emma’s scrapbook.
“Well, I haven’t exactly started one yet,” I told her, looking down at the ground.
I really do want to create a scrapbook for our 5-and-a-half-month-old daughter. A place where my husband, Chris, and I can display our most cherished memories of our little angel. Of course, he has an ulterior motive: collecting humiliating material to show to a prospective boyfriend.
But to tell you the truth, the thought of cutting crinkly designs around our photographs and arranging them on acid-free paper leaves me a little intimidated. Alright, a little paralyzed.
I’ve seen the scrapbooks all of you Moms out there are doing for your little ones. They would put any of my pitiful attempts to shame.
Where did you all learn to do that? When did you all get so creative on me?
I am so not crafty. In fact, I’m the opposite of crafty. I’m kind of the Rodney Dangerfield equivalent to your Martha Stewart.
I’ve never been artsy. In kindergarten, I was the queen of coloring. I could color with the best of them. But I dreaded the yearly arts and crafts projects for Mother’s Day or Thanksgiving. I always had to explain to my parents what my masterpiece was supposed to be.
My teenage years and early 20s didn’t yield anything better. I’ve never made my own wrapping paper, candles or pillows. I don’t stencil, stamp or sew. (Chris does all the hemming and button-sewing). And a singular attempt at origami proved disastrous.
When I found out I was pregnant last year, I began collecting things – souvenirs from my year as a Mommy in waiting. Ballgame ticket stubs, photographs and postcards quickly filled a shoebox. Suddenly, I wished that I had paid more attention in art class or tuned into Martha Stewart’s show once in a while. I had no clue what to do with all of my treasures.
Instead of beginning a scrapbook, I clipped articles about colic, teething and nursing, and put together my version of a newborn baby manual. So, I like to be a little prepared. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Since our Emma was born, I’ve filled more shoeboxes and photo albums with images and reminders of our precious one. I could envision them tucked between linen pages one day, flanked by glitter-penned narratives and cute stickers.
Then last week I finally made the leap and bought a simple, bound scrapbook. I haven’t even removed the cellophane from it yet. I will one day soon. But right now, it’s perfect. It holds the potential of being a grand scrapbook.
But somehow I know it will never quite live up to my expectations. It will dim in comparison to the memories ingrained in my mind.
Part of the problem is that I rarely have a camera in my hand when I want one. Take today for instance. I was wandering down the grocery store aisles, pushing Emma in one of those carts when she suddenly flung a leg over her infant seat and smiled up at me as if to say, “Relax, Mom. Take five.”
Or the other day when she was settling down for a nap. She stared up at me, pulled her pacifier from her rosebud mouth, smiled up at me, and then placed it back in her mouth.
Those moments don’t have to be documented. I have no fear of forgetting them. But I will begin to create a history of our daughter’s baby years just for her.
One day, she will learn just how much her Mom hated to scrapbook – and how much she loved her little girl.
