What we lose when we lose a physical record of childhood

And the parent's role as archivist

June is at camp right now, and while she’s away I’ve been working on her baby book.

(Yes, she is nine. The book has room for memories through age five, so this isn’t a “childhood book” situation where it would make sense for me to still be adding to it — I’m just behind, ha! Thankfully, I kept notes in real-time, so this late-in-the-game process is more about transferring those notes to the appropriate pages and printing out photos than mustering up details from memory. Whew!)

The book is shaping up to be a treasure — ultrasound photos, my narrative from the day of her birth, otherwise-forgotten details about when she walked and talked, tiny handprints and footprints in smudgy blank ink — and I’m glad I have it. I hope one day she’ll enjoy flipping through it.

For all the time I’ve spent creating it, however, I have no illusions about its value: it will always be secondary to the artifacts she creates herself.