A soon-to-be-outdated family picture

I hadn't had a family picture taken since Christmas of 2004. It had my complete family--Eric, me, Bianca, and Miranda. I didn't know when we had it taken that it would be the only one with Miranda in it. And I couldn't bear to have another one taken without her. In fact, I haven't even had a picture of Bianca taken since the accident. I don't know what I'm waiting for; it just seems wrong to have pictures taken without her.

But this Christmas, we had a "mandatory" family picture taken. Since my dad's been sick, my mom wanted to make sure we had a more recent photo taken with the entire (and I mean entire) family since we all came to St. Louis to spend Christmas together. Each family had its own picture.

I wasn't looking forward to it. Not only can Miranda never be in it, but I'm pregnant. And let's face it. Two things are going to happen here. First, the family picture is going to be outdated in, well, two months from now. And secondly, my body is pregnant. Translation: My nose will be at least an inch wider (which happens every time I am pregnant), my face breaks out, I can barely fit into any clothes that are decent, and well, my body is just plain swollen. Who wants a memory of that?

But we did it. Just like my mom wanted. Merry Christmas, mom. I even bought one little copy of the picture. We're certain on one thing: This is our last child, my last pregnancy. Maybe next time I forget how awful it is to be pregnant--the awful back pain, the uncomfortable nights trying to sleep, the peeing five times a night, the fat nose, I'll look back at that picture and remember that this is definitely my last pregnancy.

It's Valentines this week, so of course my mind is on death . . .

Eric's grandma died last Tuesday. She was 96, so you'll think: Yes, it was time. She lived a long life, etc. And I honestly think most people were relieved. She was in a nursing home where she was incredibly unhappy.

My last memory of her was at a Christmas party at the nursing home, where I was brought to tears by a glare she was giving my daughter. I'd never seen her eyes look so hard and what seemed hateful. I used to bring Bianca to her house to visit her once a week for nearly the first three years of Bianca's life. Every time we'd go, grandma would have sewn a new skirt or a new blanket or a new hat for Bianca. She even sewed matching pajama bottoms (with ladybugs) for Bianca and Miranda. I know she loved my girls, and they loved her. I loved her. She was so cute, fiesty, and nothing like the one grandmother I knew growing up. I think everyone wanted to adopt her as their own grandmother. I know I did.

The funeral was Saturday. I squeezed into a dress (which is getting harder to do lately without giving in and wearing a "pregnancy jumper") and we spent the entire day driving from mortuary to the first baptist church in Bountiful to the cemetery and back again.

When I saw her in the casket, she was wearing a suit that looked nothing like the woman I knew. I expected to see her in a "lavendar grandma-Peggy-cut church suit with matching home-made hat," but instead she was wearing a very clean charcoal suit. It was pretty, and modern, and nothing like grandma. Which I guess was okay since the face I saw looked nothing like her either--expressionless. I think that's why our loved ones' bodies really don't look like them, they have no expression.

I was glad to get through the day. Really glad to get home and lie down. I was hoping that Miranda was somewhere around that day, but like usual, I felt or saw nothing.

As we sat at the service, I was thinking about how grandma was up in heaven with grandpa and hopefully Miranda was somewhere nearby. But I just can't shake the thought that there might not be anything more. We sit at these funerals and we think about how happy they are in heaven, but what if this is all to make ourselves feel better? I believe in an afterlife--about 99 percent--but I can't shake that pestering thought that what if there isn't? And we're all sitting here hoping, hoping that there is. Because it's what we need, so that we don't just go off and end it right then and there.

Then on Sunday morning, as I picked up the half-soaked Tribune, I saw a story on the front page about a family who was in a car accident on Friday. The pregnant wife and two children died, while the other child in the car is at the hospital with brain swelling (which I know is not a safe place to be). And the father asks for prayers for the drunken teen who hit their car. I guess I'm not good enough because I hate the people driving the trucks who hit our car. Even if the accident "technically" didn't fault anyone specific--it was probably more my fault than anyone's--but I still hate those trucks for being there.

I guess I've still got a long way to go. I'm definitely not perfect and I haven't resolved what death means to me and I haven't found forgiveness in my heart, and I hate that my first thought about that man who just lost the majority of his family was--Good luck. It's just shock. He'll get angrier.

But maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm just the one who keeps getting angrier.

A bed made for two

I love my bed. When I go away, it's always my bed I'm happiest to get back to (except for you, Eric). There's just nothing as comfortable and comforting as my own bed.

Saturday was nothing special. I washed the sheets. I waited until Saturday because now that I'm in my third trimester, it's harder for me to bend over and put sheets on the bed just right.

So Eric helped. We did the sheets. Then continued making the bed. I smoothed the downe comforter, started adding all the pillows, the throw. (I've previously shown Eric the correct way to place the pillows on the bed, so that they look crisp and straight, with no folded-under corners. He's been great. A big help.)

I stood on the side of the bed as Eric made a sudden movement, then thought better of it. He gave me this look (one I can't exactly explain in words, but I knew exactly what was going through his head), then he flung his body on top of the newly made bed. "What's the use of having a bed if you can't lie in it?" he asked when he heard my gasp.

"You can--at night," I said.

He knew it would bother me. We both kind of laughed. He took a phone call, whilst I stood by, waiting for him to get up so I could pull the comforter taut--erasing the Eric-shaped dent he'd made into it.

I wish I could relegate all bed-making duties to him, but I know it will drive me more crazy than him. Then I'll just be lurking about the house, waiting for him to leave our bedroom (or the house) so that I can go fix the bed. I guess this is what marriage is--a compromise. And you have to compromise some of the things you want, even if that is a perfectly made bed.