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.
Lily In Canada 