A new camera

I missed a lot of photo ops this weekend. The first was Bianca singing a solo at the ward talent show Friday night. She was awesome, and I didn't even get one still shot. Then Saturday afternoon, Bianca scored her first goal at her soccer game. It wasn't so much the goal that I missed, but after she scored the goal, she ran across the field in lightning speed—with the most genuinely happy smile I've ever seen on her face—to hug Eric. I'm not sure if it was the dollar I promised her if she ever scored a goal or the actual goal, but in a picture, it doesn't matter. Does it?

Of course I didn't have my camera. I've been sick over misplacing my camera for the last several days. I've taken ever spare moment to look for it. Over and over, the same places I know I already looked. But I don't know what else to do. Last time I saw it, it was in my diaper bag, about two weeks ago.

A lot of things have happened since then. I had my cleaning ladies come in while I took Portia to her first pediatrician appointment. I hate to even suggest that they may have taken it.

I've left my garage door opened for several hours so Bianca could get her scooter while I did other things. Someone easily could have wandered by, opened the door right into my kitchen where I normally keep my camera.

Could I have left my diaper bag in the car and forgotten to lock it while I ran into Smith's for five minutes?

It could have been any number of things. But worst of all is the idea that I probably left it somewhere or lost it.

I have an article assignment for Monday, and I had to have a camera by then. So, I pushed through the nauseating idea of spending $300 on a new camera and bought one yesterday. It's fine. It's actually a little nicer, and I think I'll end up liking it more than my other camera, but it just makes me sick.

I hate losing things.

I never thought I'd say this . . .

but I'm tired of wearing comfortable pajamas and sweats. What I wouldn't give to just wear my normal clothes again. It's been three weeks and I still can't get back into them. I'm dying! Each day, as I watch all the swelling go down and things start looking back to the way they should, I optimistically try on my regular jeans and I always end up disappointed. Why is it that they put the incision from the C-section right where the top of the jeans hit?

I've started walking at nights again--thanks to my friend Dani. I'm so eager to look like I did about 10 months ago. But nothing's changing. I'm still stuck in pajamas and work-out clothes and I don't feel like I can go anywhere because I can't dress like that.

On Thursday I have a work meeting. I'm hoping that in the next two days, I'll optimistically put on my jeans and find that they fit. I don't know if my editor will appreciate me showing up in my pajama bottoms and my "I survived finals week at BYU 1994" t-shirt.

Let's keep our fingers crossed.

Another boring old star

I had an epiphany the other day--I'm not a teenager anymore. It happened while I was trying to get through another day. I pulled out the DVDs of "My So-Called Life" that I obsessed over in college. Maybe it's something about feeling old that made me want to travel back there, where life was less complicated but we thought it was as complicated as life could get.

I'm coming to a close of my self-determined child-bearing years. But I guess in the back of my mind, I always felt like I was still a kid. You know, when the entire world was at your fingertips. So many chances to get it right, so many decisions to make.

But I know that most of my decisions are made now. There really aren't many left. Now, I have to sit back and let the rest of life happen to me, instead of choosing my own paths. And it doesn't help that I look in the mirror and I'm amazed to find that youth is gone from my face and my body.

There's something about that coming-of-age time of your life. I want it back, but I'm so beyond it. It took me over ten years to realize how beyond it I've become. Now I'm the mom left at home as my daughter goes off to school. I'm the one waiting until she returns. The one behind the closed door. I'm the one that will probably embarrass my daughter in a couple years, the way my mom used to embarrass me. I'm the one she'll be begging to "stop singing" or "could you just walk a couple feet in front of me?"

I'm ashamed to admit when I was in fifth/sixth grade, my mom used to drive this enormous brown van. I refused to walk into the store with my mom to pick up a few groceries, because I had seen two boys in my grade riding their bikes on main street. So when she went into the store, I fell to the floor of the van, lying in fetal position, just trying to avoid being seen by anybody, but especially the two boys. I remember the feel of the bumpy vinyl floor on my cheek and I especially remember how I felt when I heard knocking from the window of the van and looked up to see the two boys looking down at me on the floor. Wow—I just know that I've got it coming back to me.

I guess I get to watch it happen now to my daughters. They get to have their most alive time now. I guess this is the way life works. We don't get to stay kids forever. It's such a short time but its impact is lifelong. Like the difference between a shooting star—so radiant and fleeting, and so amazing—and just another stagnant star in the sky. Barely noticeable when you look up among all the rest.

My personal rollercoaster

Take me back to the hospital.

Yeah, yeah, I know, my hormones are out of whack. My moods are dictated by how long it's been since I took my last Lortab. Once I've taken it, I'm as happy as can be--nothing's wrong with the world. If I forget, my life truly sucks. It's only been a week. I miss having a nurse come press my pills into my hand every so many hours.

My house is as hot as the desert. I hate this summer weather already. I'm dying here and don't feel like I can walk into my own kitchen to refill my glass of water. I guess I can just use the tap in my bathroom. But it always makes it taste worse. I miss the pellet ice at the hospital and pressing a button to have someone go fill up my cup again.

I'm up about three hours at different times throughout the night. I feed the baby, and she cries minutes after I put her back in the crib. I can't keep her awake to eat, and I just want to crawl back into my bed. But it never lasts. I wish my house had a nursery where I can send the baby when I really need to sleep.

I miss sleep, water, sanity. I actually miss the hospital. Is it crazy that I want to go back?

I was tagged

The rules are: Once you have been tagged you have to write a blog with 8 weird or random things, facts, or habits about yourself. At the end, you choose 8 people to be tagged, list their names, and why you chose them to be tagged. Don't forget to leave a comment that says, "You are tagged" on their profile and to read your latest blog. Have fun!

1. I've gained 43 pounds in the last 9 months

2. I love winter time more than all the other seasons.

3. I can't have the closet door open while I sleep at night.

4. I like watching Backyardigans with my 5-year-old, and singing along, of course.

5. I have to work hard to get vegetables on the table each night--I don't like them, but Bianca will never know.

6. I am a believer in horoscopes now.

7. I belong to three book clubs, and two writing groups

8. I can't stand the sight of blood or having an IV or needle poked into me. I've thrown up and passed out in the past because of them.

My mini me

never thought Bianca was much like me. She definitely doesn't look like me the way Miranda did. I always just kind of thought she was a nice mix between Eric and me. But lately, I'm seeing a lot of me in her.

When I was about Bianca's age, probably a little younger, I told my mom as I was drawing pictures that I wished I could write so that I could make up the story to go along with my drawings. I used to glue the insides of the pages together to make books.

Over the last several months, Bianca's taken quite an interest in writing stories. Her first story was about six-seven pages and was about a princess who had eight pet birds. The birds turn into fairies in the story's climactic ending. Not bad. Pretty creative.

Her next story she wrote was about a princess whose sister died. The sister would come to the princess while she slept and take her to heaven, to do all sorts of different fun things together. She illustrated it too. I submitted it to a contest (I'll let you know how that turns out) for kindergarteners.

She has this amazing creativity and I've been so proud.

In Bianca's phonics class, they've spent the last several weeks writing stories. I couldn't have been happier. All the parents were invited to this "Author's Tea." I couldn't wait to see what Bianca came up with in class. At 9:30 this morning, Eric and I were both there, sitting on kindergartener-sized chairs packed in to see the 15 kids.

Bianca went up to the front to read her story. It was about a Cheetah, which incidentally was the topic of about seven other of the kids' stories as well. It went like this: "Cheetah maxe friends. One day there was a cheetah. It hunted for lions. The End."

Of course I clapped like she'd just won the pulitzer prize. After all, she wasn't scared to get up there and read to the entire class with all the parents. But I looked to Eric like what-just-happened-here. It's not that I thought the story was bad, but it was just like most of the other kids' stories. I know Bianca has the potential to write a much better story. I've heard it. I've seen her do it. And here she is, reading something so below what I know she can do.

Why do I care? I'm not sure. I'm never going to say anything about it. I want her to keep writing stories. But it's just so hard for me to stand back and watch.

There's something lurking around the house

Call me crazy. I swear everytime I'm pregnant, there's one night in particular when things seem to go "bump in the night." It happened on Saturday.

Eric was out for the night with the "guys", so I put Bianca to bed at 7:30--her bedtime--and I sat down to finish the book I was reading. I had about 75 pages to go. I decided to take a jetted bath to help with my back pain. Baths are about the only relief I can get from the constant pressure nowadays. I read in the bath until sweat dripped into the tub from my forehead and then got out and continued reading on my bed.

About 20 minutes after I had gotten out of the tub, as I was lying on my bed, the jets from the bathtub automatically turned on. There was no water in the tub by that point, so I'm sure you can imagine the sound it made. Something between a hovering helicopter and what my dog sounds like after he's peed off the mat on my newly cleaned carpet and my foot sent him into his bed for "time-out." It wasn't good. I jumped up and turned it off, thought how weird it was, picked my book back up, and continued reading.

Five minutes later, which is about just how often I have to get up anymore to pee, I had to take a bathroom break and fill up my cup with more water. The door to Bianca's room that she just moved out of--before she moved to her new room downstairs--seemed like it was opening on its own. I wasn't wearing my glasses. I put them on and thought it was just an optical illusion. But by that point, I called Eric and asked him when he'd be home.

He returned a half hour later without another problem. We talked, went to bed, and after much tossing and turning, fell asleep. I always feel safer after Eric's here. It was dark and peaceful in bed.

Around one o'clock, we were startled awake by the brightest light that there ever was. I hurried to turn it off, scared, jumped back into bed, and nestled in as anatomically possible to Eric, inside the comforter and sheets, as I could.

Eric's convinced that it's our new baby checking things out at her new house. When I was pregnant with Bianca, a huge shelf in my bathroom jumped off the wall. With Miranda, it was probably the same old thing--lights turning on, and just sounds.

He got the idea from his mother who swears the same types of things happened while she was pregnant.

I am a believer in ghosts, always the scary kind that won't leave me alone--especially when Eric's out of town. Whenever you have time, I'll tell you about the "ghost" that lives in my parents' basement and I revisit every summer when I go hhome to visit.

I'd prefer to believe this was Portia messing around than a ghost. But it could always be wishful thinking. What do you think? Is it possible?