A two-line diary for the first year

Nobody with a newborn has time to keep a journal. Two lines is not a journal.

The rule

One notebook, kept where you feed them. The date, and two lines. Not how you feel about being a parent; what happened. “Rolled over and frightened herself.” “Hated the bath, loved the towel.” “Slept four hours. We didn’t.”

Why facts, not feelings

Feelings you can reconstruct. Facts vanish. Within a year you won’t know which month they first laughed, what they laughed at, or what you were eating at the time.

Miss days

Miss weeks. The diary that survives is the one you’re allowed to neglect.

For blank nights

What did they stare at today? What made them stop crying? What did you eat standing up? What did a stranger say? What didn’t fit any more?

Who it’s for

Them. They won’t remember any of this year; most adults’ earliest memories start years later. One day they’ll ask, and you’ll hand over a notebook that says what Tuesday was like.