For the past couple of months, Petra has had an imaginary friend.  Her name is Daisy and if the portrait Petra has drawn is a good likeness, her face is a mass of pink scribbles and she wears a red bow in her hair on one side.

Neither Lydia nor Tage ever had an imaginary friend–or one I heard anything about, at any rate–so this is all a new experience for me.  Thankfully, the friendship isn’t of the “Oh no, you’re sitting on Daisy!” variety, because I can see how that would get real old, real fast.  In fact, Daisy never joins us at all, but instead has her exploits recounted to us afterward, in exquisite detail, by Petra.

It’s amazing to me how developed her imagination is, what a rich fantasy life she has.  And it’s delightful the way she tells Daisy stories so matter-of-factly, in the very same way that she talks about the things that happen outside of her head.  For example, she came up to me just a few minutes ago, noticed that I’m wearing my bathrobe, and said offhandedly, “Daisy has one of those at her house, too.  It’s her dad’s.  His is blue and yours is pink.”  Then she went back in the other room and started doing something else.

We’ve heard rather a lot about where Daisy lives and what kinds of things she likes to do.  For quite some time she and Petra have been planning a summer camp-out in the yard with tents and sleeping bags, and apparently there have been a number of sleepovers.  It’s just possible, it seems, that Daisy will go to Petra’s school when she goes back in the fall and both girls are looking forward to that.

I’m looking forward to it a bit myself, as I’ve grown pretty fond of Daisy and though I’ve never met her, I hope she sticks around for a while.

The requisite summer solstice picture, taken from my balcony just before midnight last night:

I always check carefully–obsessively, even–to make sure that Moa is inside before we go to bed.  I can’t sleep well without knowing that she’s safe and sound, and I’ve passed a late night or two waiting for her to turn up.  One night last week I couldn’t find her inside or out, no matter how how many places I looked or how many times I called her name.  Finally, trying to ignore the tight knot of worry that was growing in my throat, I went in to check on Petra and Tage one last time before turning in myself.  As I leaned down to brush my hand across Tage’s brow, I saw a slight movement in the corner of my eye so I took a closer look.  Here’s what I found:

I’ve been feeling pretty low for the past couple of weeks, weighed down by a big ball of sadness and tension and depression and anxiety.  I’m bored and restless and I’ve been sleeping a LOT (even for me, which is a feat, let me tell you).  There have been moments–last night while doing something as mundane as washing potatoes to boil, for instance–when I feel like I can barely hold it together and I start thinking I should just pack it all in.

After finally noticing (and admitting to myself) a few days ago that this is more than just a bad mood or a reaction to the gloomy weather we’ve had, I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out just what the hell is going on.  Not only has life been going along more or less the same as always here on the homefront, but we’ve also got some particularly good things coming up in the form of my mom’s annual month-long visit and Olof’s summer vacation.  In addition, I exercise regularly, I take what has always been a good and effective daily dose of Zoloft, and I never forget my assorted vitamins and whatnot.  So what gives, man?

I was going over all this in my head earlier this evening as I made a couple of post-nap bean-and-cheese burritos (remind me to give you my recipe for refried beans), when suddenly it struck me.  Three-and-a-half weeks ago, I stopped nursing Brynja, pretty much cold turkey. When I got through the first week without painfully engorged boobs or worse, mastitis, I figured I was home free.  I think I figured wrong, though, and a little poking around here on the internet has confirmed my suspicions.  Apparently it’s not at all uncommon for a woman to have a “hormone crash” and resultant depression after weaning a baby.

So that’s that problem diagnosed, and having figured it out I feel better already (so much better, in fact, that when my browser crashed just now and took my nearly-completed entry with it, I had it in me to start over instead of calling it a loss).  I’ll keep an eye on things, even so, and if this doesn’t pass in relatively short order I’ll get myself in to see my doctor.  Until then, I’ll just keep thanking my lucky stars that I’m married to a basically unflappable guy who doesn’t seem to mind my mood swings or my nap addiction.

I’m not sure what exactly Lydia packed in the full-to-bursting duffel bag she took with her to radio camp yesterday, because she called this morning asking if I could come out with her camera … oh, and also some clothes.

What kind of clothes, I wondered.  Some pants and shirts, she said.  Socks, too.  And maybe a little more money, while you’re at it.

She may be playing DJ this week, but it looks like I’m the one taking requests.

This morning, just after nine o’clock, the six of us piled into the car and drove some twenty miles south and inland to Burträsk, where we delivered Lydia to the first of her summer activities, a four-day arts camp at Edelviks folkhögskola.  From now until Thursday afternoon, she and four other girls will be immersed in learning the ins and outs of web radio, while their fellow campers engage in either theater or visual arts studies.

Though Lydia was excited about the camp many months ago when she asked to apply, her interest had waned considerably since, and she was less than thrilled about the morning’s journey.  No amount of cajoling could cheer her up, and her parting words to me were, “You’ll probably just have to come back and get me tomorrow.”  So far, though, the only thing I’ve heard from her was a request made via text for me to “stop by” with a toothbrush, the reply to which–”buy one with the spending money we gave you”–was met with only a minimum of grumbling.

We also heard from her, indirectly, when we listened to their first show, which aired at two o’clock.  She wasn’t the “host” for that sending, so she didn’t do a whole lot of talking, but she did get in a few words here and there.  I’m not sure yet when it will be her turn to be in the driver’s seat, but I’m looking forward to it (and hoping she is as well, by now).

The junior radio troupe will be broadcasting two live shows every day on Radio Garderoben, from 10-11 a.m. and from 2-3 p.m. (central European time).  Tune in and give it a listen if you’re in a mood to hear the banter of a gaggle of adolescent Swedish girls and a variety of tunes picked by their instructor (who must be about my age, if I were to judge from the selection of 1980s hits that were played–and mocked by the students–this afternoon).