missing the camera

I had so many photos I wanted to post, but I hadn't gotten around to uploading them from my camera for almost a month. A few weeks ago, we attended an outdoor family-friendly concert with Eliza and brought our camera. Once we returned to our car, however, I noticed our camera was not with us. Chris became very angry and spat that I didn't deserve to have anything of value. We got in the car and went back to the concert site ASAP. I was relieved to find the hemp shopping bag where I had put the camera (in its case), but then my heart sank when I saw the camera wasn't inside. It had taken us 20 minutes to walk to the car, and in that time, our (overlooked) bag was unattended.

Yes, I'm bitter. It was a half-broken camera, but I could still rig it to work, and some camera is better than none at all. But what really upsets me isn't just that our camera was stolen and that we can't afford a new one at the moment. What upsets me most are the dozens of photos I lost and the hundreds I won't be able to take until I can get another camera. I won't even have a photo of my daughter's 3rd birthday.

So it's going to be awhile before I can post original photos again. I had taken some of my best food photos in July - what a pity. I can't recall what they all were at the moment, but I do remember all our August desserts:

• kamut-hemp chews (Vive le Vegan!)
• crispy rice treats (The Hip Chick's Guide to Macrobiotics)
• peach upside-down cake (Fatfree Vegan blog entry; see also VeganYumYum's take on it) w/ Good Karma's Organic Rice Divine [very vanilla flavor]

It looks like a lot for a month, but I was able to bring the kamut-hemp cookies and rice treats to potlucks, and that includes all desserts (I didn't even have a chocolate bar) since the only sweet thing I could eat at C's company picnic was watermelon.

The cake was for Chris's birthday. I had printed out Susan's recipe thinking we should have it while peaches are still in season, and even though his birthday was still weeks away, Chris brought the print-outs to me and asked what my plans were for it because he sure would like it for his birthday. I was surprised because Chris is a pie and cookie person who usually doesn't care for cake. But as it turns out, he and Eliza both ate the cake while moaning about how good it was.

blue funk

"Just say OK. All they want to hear is OK."

"But what if I'm not OK?"

"It doesn't matter. Just say OK."

My husband and I had this conversation a number of times over the years. I used to answer "how are you doing?" as if it were meant literally and not as a small-talk convention. No one wants to hear that your back hurts or that you have three research papers due the same day, he would say. It came naturally to him with his buttoned-up upbringing, but it felt culturally alien to me. After enough years of startled looks that said "that's not how it works - you say you're OK, I say I'm OK" I finally gave in.

Although I still have to fight the urge to say what I'm really thinking, I've grown used to the convention. The hard part is when I'm scared or desperately sad. When I'm hurting, I withdraw. If not for Eliza begging to go somewhere every day, I wouldn't have left the house these last few weeks. I'm grateful in a way - her insistence on getting out sometimes keeps me from dwelling on my sadness for a short time. I laugh. I smile. Then alone with my thoughts once more, I ache.

Twice in the last few weeks I broke character with the same person. I'm not entirely sure why - maybe there's something about her that made me less scared about feeling vulnerable. In any case, I didn't say OK for once, which brought a moment of relief followed by regret - I wished I could take it back. Was there anything she could do, she wanted to know, and I sensed she meant it. There's nothing anyone can do, I thought to myself. But what she said next, each time, stayed with me. What I had offered was just the tip of the iceberg of my despair, but that tip started to melt. I debated about whether to tell her that her gesture meant a lot to me. I lack the courage and articulateness to tell her in person, so I thought about sending a short e-mail, but again I hesitated for fear of sounding shmaltzy. Early this morning, I read something she wrote that spoke to me, and it has been rattling around in my head in the hours since. I never intended to post about my blue funk, preferring to stick to emotionally safe topics like Eliza's mischief, but after reading that, I knew I had to write this. If she happens to be reading this, just know I am grateful.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled food, books, and mischief posts.

bumper cars

%#!*%$@$# birth center parking lot!

This happened to my car just hours ago. There was no available street parking, so I had to park in the birth center's miniature 4-car parking area down a narrow alley. Now I'm quite familiar with this parking lot because Eliza was born at the birth center, and I always hated it with a passion, but it has been more than a year since my last well-woman visit, so I'm out of practice inching the car back and forth, forth and back until after five minutes of frustration, I finally manage to squeeze back out the alley. Only today it went like this:

crank the wheel right
inch back
crank the wheel left
inch forward
...repeat many times...
crank the wheel right yet again
inch back
CRUNCH!

Bam, right into the stone wall. When I got home, I saw my bumper had separated. C is going to kill me. Maybe I'll suggest a fixed bumper in lieu of a birthday present.

tantrums

Between our being mostly housebound and her father's long hours at work, Eliza's tantrums have increased in length and intensity these last couple weeks. Most of the time, there's no trigger as far as I can see, and when there is a discernible cause, it's so odd. Here are two examples:

She asked for a pickle. What did I do? I handed her the pickle she had asked for (silly me), which was immediately thrown on the floor and declared "yucky!" She started walking away and was completely indifferent to the pickle's fate until I threw it in the trash. She threw herself on the kitchen floor only to bump her head hard, so her screaming intensified turning her face crimson. Often holding her will help her calm down, but not that day - it made her even more angry. So she screamed herself hoarse for a good 20 minutes on the family room carpet until her throat hurt so much she could only croak. All I could do was sit next to her helplessly - any attempt to make contact infuriated her. When she finally regained her composure, she curled into my lap, nestling her head against my shoulder to read a few books.

One of yesterday's tantrums was set off by Legos. You know the little Lego men? Eliza thought they'd be better off without pants. Great. The only problem is that the pants don't come off, which I tried to explain to no avail - she went off the deep end.

She's a good egg, a wonderful little person, and it makes me sad to see her so frustrated.