Sometimes I almost don't recognize myself when I look in the mirror.

Is that really the same person who beat Jose De Hoyos (fastest sixth-grade boy in the universe) in the 50-yard dash one perfect spring afternoon?

Or who sat by the pool at Helaman Halls slathering baby oil on her legs while wearing a two-piece swimming suit? IN PUBLIC?

Or dyed her hair a different color every time she got bored and/or depressed? Which was hormonally often that summer she was 17?

Or backpacked with friends through Europe during college? And never told her parents about the night they all slept on the floor of a train station?

Or wore her mother's wedding dress when she got married? (Nice idea. Dress definitely looked better on the mother, though.)

Or hiked to the top of Timp with her husband without being carried back down the mountain on a stretcher?

Or gave birth? More than once? Or twice? OR EVEN THREE TIMES?

Or routinely fed and bathed a herd of wild man babies every night before putting them to bed?

Or survived those same man babies when they morphed into teenagers?

Frankly, the lady in the mirror doesn't look like she could (or would) do any of those things now.

Yeah. She's definitely gotten older ...

I've gotten older.

Yikes! Where have the years gone? (Answer: I don't know! I forgot to keep a scrapbook!)

Speaking of which, scrapbooking is a VERY big deal right now.

Most of the young mothers I know have taken up the hobby, although the hobby certainly isn't a new one.

My sister-in-law, Jeri, in fact, has kept beautiful scrapbooks forever. And for a while I felt bad I haven't been capturing my life in a scrapbook, too — until I had lunch with my dad not too long ago.

He wanted to know if I still write all over my hands like I did when I was a little girl.

Yes, I told him, and then I explained: Unlike random bits of paper with telephone numbers or doctor's appointments scrawled across them, hands are difficult to misplace until you can get home and find your calendar.

That's when it occurred to me that my body IS my scrapbook!

Yes! It's my semi-permanent record of where I've been and what I did there.

Take that scar on my right knee, for instance: I got it in a church parking lot ("Where I Was") when I fell off my new bicycle ("What I Was Doing There") while racing Timmy Anderson.

What about the scar on my baby finger?

Got that one from an open oilcan in my grandpa's garage.

Dead tooth? Never could resist jumping on a bed when my parents weren't looking.

Stretch marks? Duh.

And then, of course, there are all the non-specific "souvenirs" of wear and tear: wrinkles, frown lines, laugh lines, crow's-feet, stiff feet, age spots, dry skin, crinkly neck.

Frankly, I'm not sure I love how they look on me. But at least I'm happy (mostly) with the stories they tell

e-mail: acannon@desnews.com