Recently, I have been going through all my old pictures, which involves sifting through boxes that have been in storage since the Senior Bush administration. These are boxes I threw miscellaneous things into with the intent of going through them “someday,” which finally arrived—much like the judgment day my mother promised if I didn’t clean my room.

Some of the things I unearthed were amazing, including stories I wrote in high school and even earlier. It is obvious these literary excerpts need a lot of editing. A LOT.

But one item I had never seen before caught my eye. It was a baby book meant to record all the baby’s milestones during her first year. I say “her” because it is MY baby book. In the front is dutifully listed my parents’ names, the hospital, the time when I was born, my birth weight, and the doctors who delivered me. Very official. Very promising. The kind of beginning that suggests someone was really excited. Every page after that is blank. That’s right. BLANK.

Not “mostly blank.”

Not “filled out until month three.”

Not even a half-hearted “rolled over?” with a question mark.

Nothing
.
Because I am the SECOND child.

First children get documentation worthy of a federal investigation. Their baby books include exact timestamps for first smiles, first steps, and first dirty diaper. My older brother got 15 hours of home movies of him taking a bath.

Second children? We are more of a general concept.

My mother clearly started my baby book with the best of intentions. I say my mother, since my father would never think to record anything other than home movies—which, by the time I arrived, consisted of a single short video of me being pushed down the street in my stroller. That’s it. Thankfully, no movies of me taking a bath.

Somewhere around my first diaper blowout, combined with my older brother needing a snack right now, the pen was set down and never picked up again. I would have thought my book could have at least included a few entries like:

“Somewhere in here, she slept through the night. Maybe.”

“Rolled over. Probably. We heard a thump.”

“Spoke first word. Unsure which parent heard it. Could’ve been the dog.”

Second children grow up on hand-me-downs and vibes. We wear clothes that say things like “World’s Best Big Brother” that were clearly not meant for us. Our toys are passed down from our older siblings, and may or may not still be in working order, let alone sex appropriate. (Yes, I’m being politically incorrect here.) Our nursery themes are less “carefully curated” and more “whatever was left in the closet.”

And pictures? First child: entire photo albums. Multiple angles. Professional lighting. If baby sneezes (or takes a bath), there’s a slideshow.

Second child: maybe three photos, all slightly blurry, all taken during family events where we are accidentally included in the background like a surprise guest.

Milestones become less urgent. Parents no longer rush to write things down because they’re too busy keeping everyone alive. Also, they’ve realized that no one actually asks to see baby books. Ever. Except for the second child, decades later, while standing in a dusty storage room, experiencing a mild identity crisis.

But second children learn to be adaptable. We learn to survive with fewer resources and even fewer records. We don’t need a baby book to know we existed. The blank pages aren’t proof that we were forgotten. They’re proof that life got louder, busier, messier—and fuller.

Still, it would have been nice to know when I took my first steps. Or at least which month I stopped eating dirt. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that my baby book is blank and the evidence of my early life is thin at best.

But after flipping through those empty pages, I came away with one overwhelming thought:

Thank goodness I’m not a third child. Because at least I got a book. Even if no one ever wrote in it.