A few years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child, there was no acquisition more important to me than the perfect baby book. Growing in girth, I launched a massive search both online and all over Toronto, visiting every store I could think of. I was certain I?d know when I saw it?something whimsical and well crafted but not too commercial or cloying.
In my ninth month I finally found ?the one??a book that seemed the right fit for me, a very picky professional writer bent on documenting every detail of her baby?s growth (I take notes for a living, after all). I now realize that my obsession was tied to a subconscious notion I had that ?A+ mothering? meant rigorous, baby-related record keeping. And in the first weeks after my daughter, Isla, was born, that?s just what I did. I sacrificed precious sleep to fill those crisp pages, taking pains to write neatly (and always with the same pen). My husband and I took turns so our daughter would later see that we were both invested; we were determined that the baby book would reflect the depths of our love. As we became more and more sleep deprived, our commitment to logging milestones faded. Instead, our iPhones took over, filling up with photos. While we snapped away, that precious baby book languished on a shelf somewhere. For a few months, I actually lost it. I later found it beneath a pile of old, forgotten underwear, when my daughter was more than a year old. In it was the lock of hair I had dutifully taped in after her...