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When our son was born, five years ago this month, my wife and I began, as parents will, to note milestones in a baby book. Within six weeks there was no place left in the baby book to note milestones. What we had instead was about 30 pages of my minute handwriting, meandering in long sentences across blanks and graphs and charts that were apparently intended for more systematic usage. By Christmas, the book was not only unpresentable, but, frankly, unreadable. In search of a solution, we settled at the start of January on writing tiny notes in the daily boxes of the miniature desk calendar our realtor had sent us. This was the sort of calendar on which squares for the entire month are squeezed onto a sheet of paper smaller than the average man’s hand. Our intent, in choosing such a calendar, was to discipline our notations, to avoid rambling on through endless diary pages about the precise intonations of a midnight shriek. Instead, I now have a documented record that on April 20, 2001, we went to Sav-on. But I also know that, on the night of April 30, our son wasn’t feeling well, and that we sang him a song we’d made up about rain. I know that we sang the song until 4:12 a.m. I know the following things about his ability to get around: 5/24/01: “Crawls! For real!”…6/10/01: “Stands up on his own! (as we watch Lakers-76ers game three).”…6/25/01: “First Step! From couch to chair, not holding anything. Big rainbow. Opens cabinets.”…7/24/01: “Takes 10 steps.” The magic of the calendar, in looking back, is in its mix of the significant and the seemingly trivial. The May 1, 2001 box tells us that our son pulled himself up to sit in the crib; it also tells us that we watched a midmorning repeat of “Northern Exposure.” The entry for June 30 tells me that he brushed his teeth for the first time; it also says, “Doesn’t enjoy avocado.” 3/22/02: “Does shape sorter very quickly. Still doesn’t eat or drink well.” 3/24/02: “1:40 a.m. CLIMBS OUT OF CRIB!” On March 26, 2002, my wife showed our boy the full moon, “Moon!” she said. “Ball!” he retorted. On Aug. 9, I interviewed for a job that I didn’t get. On Oct. 11, we spent a day in San Clemente: “He says the word ‘kiku’ so much and so happily,” reports the calendar, “that we start to call him Kiku.” Up to this moment, I had completely forgotten about the word “Kiku”. But just now, as he turns 5, it sure is nice to remember. Greg Blake Miller writes from Las Vegas. |
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