Scrapbooking

I do not make scrapbooks. I tried once, when I had my first dear, sweet baby. I bought a nice album, some papers and glue.  It did not work out well. I couldn't figure out how to make it look nice and cute and "creative". I cropped my photos too small. The little tiny rattle and baby bottle stickers bugged me. The glue was too sticky. I gave up.  

Sometimes I wonder if I'll regret not scrapbooking. People are always trying to convince me to do it. The "scrappers". They really can make you feel guilty. At this point, though, I'm so far behind I could never catch up, even if I wanted to. I take hundreds of photos of the boys, and I do things with them. I frame some. I send some to the grandparents. I make Christmas cards on Shutterfly with them. Mostly they sit on iphoto waiting for something to happen. 

Why are we so obsessed with making and preserving memories? Is it because our own parents could hardly be bothered to take a picture of us? My own mother started a baby book for my older sister. When I came along 21 months later, she simply wrote things about me in the margins. I'm not sure if there are any existing baby photos of my younger sister. 

The main problem I see with all the scrapbooks that are being made is this: What's going to happen to them all?  Imagine for a moment. The year is 2018. Ava is packing up the car, going off to college. Mom comes out to the driveway with a huge box. "Here sweetie," mom says,  "I've been saving these for you." Ava looks in the box. Sees the 19 scrapbooks, every moment of her life from conception to high school graduation, photographed, trimmed with fancy scissors, framed with multicolored papers, hand-lettered comments. 

"I'm not taking that to college!" Ava says. "Ugh, mom, it's so embarrasing!"

With an active imagination, you can justify doing (or not doing) just about anything!