blogs

When I was around seven years old, I noticed a book on the shelf in my room.

 "Baby's Journal," read the spine. I couldn't wait to read it; after all, it was all about me.

The first few sections were filled out meticulously -- among other things, my mother found it important to document each and every baby shower gift I received, along with the names of their corresponding givers. I can only assume this list was meant for thank-you notes, which makes me think fondly of my own baby shower thank-you note list, scrawled out by my sister-in-law on a piece of scrap paper left over from our ice-breaker game, with miscellaneous Melville quotations written randomly on the side. "I would prefer not to." It's a mantra for the ages.

After the baby-shower-gift list in the book about me, though, there's a pause. I remember turning pages, looking for more information. Was I a nice baby? Did I scream constantly? Was I cute? Did they have any inkling of how amazing I would someday become, and, more importantly, did they talk about it?

A few pages later comes: "Elizabeth smiled for the first time at six weeks. We are now utterly at her mercy." Vindication! Explanation!

And then there's nothing else.

Which, I think, pretty much describes what it's like to be a new parent. As far as the outside world is concerned, the line just kind of goes dead for a few months.

That's why I was so interested this weekend in Oakland to find what purported to be a documention of "Baby's First 1000 Days."

My first response, of course, was to feel guilty. Because, after all, there are many days in Baby J's life that have passed with no record whatsoever.

And then there were the lists: Baby's first smile, sure, gotcha. Baby's first friend, okay. Baby's first rainshower -- I actually remember. But then it gets hazy.

Baby's first foods. Baby's reaction to each food. Got it covered.

How I thought Baby would react to the food. How I felt when Baby reacted differently. I'm exaggerating, but only slightly.

Especially at the part where it began to demand things like: my hopes for Baby. My dreams for Baby. A letter for Baby. Baby's first walk. Baby's first trip to the park. Baby's first thought upon entering a room filled with strangers for the very first time. Baby's first thought. My reaction to Baby's first thought. From both parents. Individually.

Sometimes I make fun of things because I feel bad that I'm not doing them. This is one of those times.

In my defense, though?

I have a lot of hopes for Baby J. I have a lot of dreams for Baby J. I could fill an entire book with information about Baby J. He's all I talk about. He's all I think about. To a large extent, he's all I do. He colors every aspect of my life, from where I go, to what I eat, to how late I stay out, to who my friends are, to why I act the way I do in public.

And someday I hope to tell him all of this.

But he's only a couple of months old (okay, almost seven) and what I really want to do now is spend time with him. This is the only time he'll ever be this small, this young, this -- just -- baby-ish.

And I want to experience it instead of crazily documenting it.

When I was seven, I admit I was kind of bummed that my parents hadn't finished filling out my book. But now that I'm older, I'm glad they actually spent time with me instead. I had homecooked meals every night. I had bedtime stories and trips to the park, and hand-made Halloween costumes. Most of all, I had parents who loved me. I hope to give the same to my baby, because loving him is the strongest emotion I have ever felt. Ever.

All that mushy stuff being said, on our way home from Oakland today, Freckles and I saw a rainbow over Altamount Pass.

I glanced over at Baby J, sleeping peacefully beside me in the World's Most Expensive Carseat.

You'd think I'd just be really happy to see him there and feel a rush of love, right?

But, actually, as I looked at his angelic face, guilt swept across me. Baby's First Rainbow. Did it count? Should I write it down? If you see a rainbow in the forest and no one's there to listen does it actually exist?

And I couldn't think of the answers.