I would keep baby books. Memories of when life was simple, there was so much less to worry about.

I would keep them, and look back on the things that I don’t remember. I would keep them and see the little girl in those photos, who was happy and carefree. 

I would read about how happy my parents were to have me, about how excited they were to meet me. I would  read about everything my mom went through while she was pregnant; her cravings, her mood, everything. I would read about their name ideas, and how often my due date changed. 

It’s different now. They don’t smile when I come into the room, they don’t ask what I learned in class that day. They don’t say goodnight to me, and they don’t wake me up for school. We don’t eat meals together anymore. It’s different now.

I would see the big smiles I had for things I don’t care for anymore. I would see how much love my parents' faces showed when they looked at me. I would see myself growing up from a different point of view.

It’s different now. I’m not as excited by things I used to be. Being able to stay up late is no longer a privilege; it’s a necessity. My parents don’t look at me the way they did in the photos, I know they still love me; they just don’t look at me much anymore. We seem to be too busy for each other. It’s different now. 

I would keep baby books, and wish life still felt like it did then.