My latest panic attack is involving the stack of photographs I have hidden on the top shelf in the kitchen. Pictures of Haddie from the time she was born. Mounds of them. Sitting. Doing nothing. Telling no stories. Not beautifully displayed
At a past playgroup, my friend Suzy brought scrapbooks of her daughter, Addeson. Her mom has spent hours, days, lifetimes scrapbooking every detail of her granchildren’s lives. The pages that unfolded were gorgeous memoirs of Adde’s first year of life. And all I could think of was sweet Haddie’s collection gathering dust.
This whole crappy scrapbooking craze is making those of us who are artsy-fartsy challenged look bad. Woman around me are obsessed with it. They pull scrapbooking all-nighters, go on scapbooking retreats, and hit scrapbooking conventions. I just don’t get it. Is it abnormal that I’d rather be marinated in sweat while lugging Haddie up a mountain instead of placidly capturing these memories in an album?
I don’t know the answer. Either way, Haddie will probably be in therapy for years just for having me as a mother. With that said, why would I want to memoralize such trauma? Finally, a loophole, a way out!
I feel better already.
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 