By Alyssa Warmland

I pulled the photos out of their envelope one at a time, turning over each one to carefully record the date, place, and people in the photo. Sometimes, I included comments. “Apple picking in Hamilton with Pop Pop, Fall, 2023. You loved the wagon ride!”. I slipped each picture into an empty pocket in my son’s photo album.

Next, I pulled out the baby book I’ve kept since before he was even earthside. I flipped to a page at the back to record an appointment, a new adventure with a forest homeschool group, and milestones.

When I tell other people my age about these rituals, they tend to share that they wish they were better about printing pictures and writing in their kids’ baby books. I’ve always enjoyed documentation, an avid journalkeeper as long as I’ve been able to write. I’ve considered this another extension of that interest. It wasn’t until earlier this week that it hit me- I keep these records so that if I die while my kid is young, he will have access to this information.

When I was 14, my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I remember the day my dad picked me up from school and told me the results of the biopsy. I remember riding beside him in the passenger seat and thinking, “She’ll never meet my kids. She won’t be at my wedding. She won’t see me graduate.” All the milestones we would spend apart ran through my head. In the years since her death, I’ve consulted my baby book and read, over and over, the notes she wrote to me.

When my son was born and I became a mother, I read the notes in my book. When he started getting teeth, I turned to my (and my brother’s) books to find out when we got our teeth. I’ve looked up when we potty trained, what our sleep was like, about her breastfeeding experiences, when we started going to the dentist, and, most recently, upon learning that I was expecting another baby, what it was like when my mom brought my brother home. Not all, but some, of my questions I wish I could ask her about were answered in this record she lovingly kept.

As I write in my son’s books and caption the photos I’ve printed, I honour her, my child, and my own mother/child self. I hold space for my grief and for her memory. I continue a tradition of mothers keeping records to pick up when our babies need them.