Books

Baby Books

My mom is trying to get her house all packed up and ready to move. She’s not moving her house, but she is moving everything inside it. It’s weird–houses are just a shell. What makes it a home is really all the stuff inside. In order to lighten her load, she decided to send me some of my scrapbooks and knick-knacks from around my room. When I received my packages, one of them had a couple of baby books in it.

At first I was like, what am I going to do with my baby books? I didn’t make them. I didn’t think of them as mine. I remember looking at them years ago marveling at how cute I was when I was little. But really, how many people would be interested in looking at pictures of me as a child? Well, probably everyone.

Still, I just thought of them as more things to take up space. But I started flipping through them and my mind changed immediately. When I read the way my mom and dad talked about me, I felt so good, so loved. I wasn’t even a real person at that point , I didn’t do anything besides eat, poop, and sleep but they loved me more than anything.

I know not everyone is as lucky as I am. Some kids don’t grow up with loving parents, or parents at all. But even people with loving parents like mine don’t always take a moment to recognize what a gift it is to be born to people who love you and care for you like you’re some kind of treasure. I’m glad I have those baby books as a reminder that my parents have loved me from day one. Not that I need a reminder.

Plus, on a narcissistic note, it’s nice to have a book where I’m the main focus.

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