Just me

Upon my mother's death I became the owner of many things, among the most important items is my baby book. How meaningful and necessary it has become to me now that I am a mother. How crucial since I don't have my mother to tell me these things herself and how the book frustrates me for the same reason.

It's your standard baby book in many ways - words and dates written in my mother's hand, pictures lovingly placed in the correct spots, now set free to slip around the yellowing pages because the adhesive has long since dried and lost its hold. Cards from my first birthday and plastic, throwaway bibs from family dinners at local restaurants that have long since closed up shop. Memories on every page. My mother's memories of my first years of life that she saved for me.

I am now the owner of those words and pages, but I am not the owner of the memories. Those were my mother's and they went with her when she died. Reading the book is like looking over the mementos and notes that will become the biography of someone I've never met: The card that was used on my rolling crib to identify me from the other babies in the nursery of the hospital where I was born (Baby Girl A__. Room 103. Time of Birth: 9:45am). My height and weight progression until age 5 (At 18 months: H - 32.5 inches, W - 22lbs, 10oz. Exactly the same size as Chicky at her 18 month appointment). Important milestones - First steps at 15 months (Chicky took her's at 14 and a half) and first words (Dada, Baby). It's all fascinating to me, but the dates and times and charts could be different and I wouldn't know any better. I don't know this newborn baby referred to on these pages or the toddler in the pictures. I have no memory of her. She looks like me and there's my full name written out many times throughout but she is better known to others who knew her then.

I have a love/hate relationship with this book.

I love it because it has been such a comfort to me during these first years as a mother. When I worry if Chicky is becoming too skinny, since she refuses to eat anything but Cheerios some days and her pants keep falling down her butt, I look at my baby book and see that I was the same way at this age and I turned out (relatively) okay. I look at the pictures of the smiling baby I was and see Chicky's face. I recognize the nose and the smile. Yes, we do look a lot alike. She is my daughter.

But I hate this book because it taunts me with what is not written. They are just notes, a few words to record dates and information for posterity. It doesn't explain what happened on these days. Who was I walking to? Why was I drinking from a cup so early? It says in my baby book that I was potty trained at 18 months. How is this possible?!

(Apparently my mother was a bit of an overachiever, but I'll never know for sure.)

I long for the answers to these questions but I'm also looking for guidance in my current life and I can't forcibly pull either one from the pages of this book. Even if I shake it hard and watch the tokens fall to the floor, I will not find what I'm looking for. I can closely look at pictures with a magnifying glass looking for clues and try to read between the lines but that will only get me so far. The memories are gone, save for the pieces recorded between the pink flowered covers. Gone with the person who should be here to tell me that my daughter is progressing just fine, the one who should hold my hand when I'm stressed out over tantrums and milestones, or take my frantic phone calls when my daughter won't sleep. Gone with the person who should be the one to tell me that I'm doing a good job, that I am a good mother regardless of how I feel on any given day. Gone with my mother before I knew how badly I was going to need them.

It's all gone, except for the book. There's Just Me.

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*The title of this entry is also the title on the cover of my baby book.