The baby book records everything except the person filling it in

I was filling in my son's baby book when I realized I had described myself as transportation.

First trip to the park. First visit to his grandparents. A page for a family afternoon where every picture showed him with somebody else.

My part was getting us there and taking the picture.

He is ten months old. I am not missing from his life. I'm missing from the record I keep making of it.

The discovery happened over a ridiculous photograph. My husband was holding him beside a pile of laundry. Both of them were laughing. I had taken it while folding a towel, then cropped out the basket so the picture looked less like our house.

I couldn't find a similar picture of me. There were posed ones from earlier visits, where I had brushed my hair and handed someone the phone. There weren't many of the ordinary minutes I keep collecting for everybody else.

I wanted to blame my husband for not noticing. Sometimes that blame would be fair. This time I also noticed how often I say wait, move that, don't get the kitchen in the background.

I have made being photographed into a task with preparation, then wondered why nobody catches me casually doing anything.

That evening I asked him to take a picture while I sat on the floor with our son. I didn't fix the laundry. The baby was looking at a cardboard box instead of either parent. My sock had a hole.

I almost deleted it.

Instead I put it in the book and wrote that we spent part of the afternoon opening and closing the flaps. There wasn't a first attached to it. It was just a thing we did.

I'm keeping the dates and the little spaces for memorable events. I like them. But I want the book to show more than destinations and accomplishments.

Someday he may flip through it without studying a single caption. I would still like there to be evidence that I was sitting on the floor too.