As previously confessed, I don't have a baby book for Judah. I have one for Anna, but it's only filled in up to around six months. I hope she never needs to know her 9 month old weight, because that information has floated away into the cumulus of all forgotten facts.
I do have these tiny books for them. I love tiny things. So much so that the phrase "tiny white dishes" has become a joke in our marriage. I started writing letters to Anna when I was 20 weeks pregnant and we knew she was a girl. I started Judah's a month or so after he was born. I write with haphazard frequency, usually just once a month or so. I keep them in the telephone nook in our hallway, which we aren't ever going to use for a telephone but is charming nonetheless. I am probably charmed by it because it is a tiny nook! All the tiny things together!
In the letters, I tell them the cute things they're doing. I write down things Anna says that are hilarious and will do the same for Judah when he is able to talk. I pray for them. I tell them over and over again how much I love them.
One of the things I've realized about being a mom is that it's good to capitalize on my strengths. Oh, there are things that I have to hunker down and do no matter how I feel about them. I wouldn't say keeping on top of the cloth diaper laundry is a strength of mine, yet it has to be done. Of all the many things that are non-essentials, though, I can gracefully release the ones that aren't me. I'm just not the mom that saves the lock of hair, the hospital bracelet, all the monthly stats. And that's okay. I can do letters, and more importantly, I will do letters because I love to write.
I hope someday they read my letters, scrawled imperfectly but with every stroke a love mark. I hope they are reassured that the love I have for them reaches far back, into times they can't even remember. To have been loved before one began is a strength and comfort of great proportions, and that love is a gift I can give them, all bound up in a tiny book.