Ben, my oldest, has two baby books – TWO – devoted to his adorable chubby-cheeked ass. Everyone was all, “just wait until you have your SECOND kid – it’ll be lucky to have a single baby book.” (this was before anyone knew I’d be HAVING a second kid, so “it” was a perfectly fine way to refer to my yet-to-be-gestating child).
When I got pregnant with Alex, I was all “IMMA PROVE THEM WRONG, BITCHES.” So I went to one of those fancy sites where you can create your own baby book with an adorable cover and paid approximately four kidneys for the honor.
You can guess what happened.
His baby book looks remarkably like my own – a couple of pictures shoved inelegantly into a never-opened book. Sure, the site I’d signed up at would EMAIL me to remind me to fill out month six or whatever, but I’d quickly delete them before I got all mushily guilty about it (postpartum depression is a motherfucker).
Amelia, well, I spent most of my pregnancy with her determined that something was wrong, so I didn’t exactly feel comfortable buying a baby book for her (oddly, I was right). I figured that if the unborn fetus lived, I’d buy her a lavish baby book and begin to fill it with all kinds of pithy observations.
Ha.
Ha.
HA.
Okay, so that didn’t happen. Who saw THAT coming?
Stop laughing.
After successfully launching a party for my girl this weekend, I was all “I need some nice photo books!” Which is a huge statement coming from me – I’ve never printed a picture in my life, much less actually arranged them in some sort of “book” to “hold pictures.”
So I turned to The Twitter, to find myself a place to order photo prints. See, The Twitter solves EVERYTHING for me. From dispelling the “feed a cold, starve a fever” Old Wives Tale, to hysterically informing me that Notorious SNOMG is going to bury me and I will have subsist, Donner-party style, upon my angsty cats, The Twitter does it all.
The Twitter was sadly divided about this particular dilemma. Some suggested snapfish. Others swore it was crap. Some suggested shutterfly. Others said it was crap. Most people said Walgreens did right by their photos.
I was, of course, confused. This was more information than my wee brain could possibly process!
So I visited the second site I listed (I am desperately NOT trying to sound like one of those annoying PR blogs) and saw I could make a photo book AND THEY WOULD SEND IT TO ME.
Oh.
Em.
Gee.
That’s awesome.
Except it tapped into the unused slightly OCD party of my lizard brain, each time I had to create a page, thus reminding me that scrapbooking would be the death of me (and not just from boredom). I’d be so screwed if I were a scrapbooker.
Because of the twenty pages that come with my book, I have completed ten. You’re all, HIGH FUCKING FIVE, AUNT MOTHERFUCKING BECKY, because ten sounds like a BIG FUCKING NUMBER.
Until I tell you that I’ve easily spent an hour on each page. Each. Fucking. Page.
Because if it’s not perfect, I know I will point it out to everyone that sees it (read: three people): “Lookit that stupid embellishment – it’s SO not right for that background.”
What, me neurotic?
NEVER.
If you need me, Pranksters, I will be trying to starve my fever by feeding it vodka and working on this baby book for my girl. Then, I must make one for her big brother.
THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS.
Also: they may kill me.
(Source: mommywantsvodka.com)
