An irregular series in which I air my dirty domestic laundry - sometimes literally - in the hopes of . . . of . . . I'm not exactly sure what, but it's likely one of two things: (a) publicly shaming myself into doing better wife- and mom-wise or (b) dragging y'all down with me into the anti-Martha morass.
Before Master P arrived - as in, more than one year ago - we were showered with many a thoughtful gift, an elegant baby book being amongst them. For the child-free civilians amongst us, baby books are filled with pages in which parents are to lovingly fill in the important details of baby's birth & first year:
That darling black & white photo peering out from the cover? Is lovely, but it's not my own personal baby - er, I mean, former-baby-now-toddler. Those cards and loose photographs spilling out from within? Were just randomly shoved in there over Master P's first year, somewhere between "Real Housewives" episodes.
It gets worse.
Note the blank pages within said baby book, including the "Letter from Mommy" page there to the left. Because the woman who can write umpty-million schmoopy posts about her son, to the delight of no one, can't pen an actual keepsake letter to him.
The irony just continues...
Lord knows that this blogger doesn't like the sound of an "About Mommy" page that allows her to talk about ME ME ME in great detail.
And while I'm looking like a thoughtless mother, let's add the baby photo album to the fun:
Organizational experts classify this as the "shove & forget" form of filing.
Lest you believe me to be a complete absentee mother, I have been updating the Baby Book with essentials such as height/weight updates and when he first crawled. It's just that . . . that's it, actually. Um.
Interwebs, I want you to know that, for once, the Martha Stewart-y guilt - that same feeling I get reading Pinterest & feeling badly for not crocheting whimsical baby berets, etc. - got the best of me. Yes, last night I organized, I wrote down some (not all) of the schmoopy stuff, I put photos in the proper locations:
Voila! Neveryoumind that half of Master P's head is cut off on the cover shot. The point is, that *is* my wee preshusss angel now starring on the front of his own book - which is no longer haphazardly stuffed with baby detrius, I might smugly add. (Because I plastic bagged that part up & shoved it to the back of his closet)(As one does)(Parentheses).
After this spectacular domestic effort, I trust that I can just set aside a shoebox for Imaginary Child #2 & shove his/her "baby book" belongings in accordingly? Right? Right?