THE COUNTDOWN BEGINS!

This picture was taken on the day Shawn originally left and what feels like a couple of lifetimes ago. We are a week away people! One week! Wish me stability and cute hair!

So today I went in for the gender ultrasound. I am happy to report that we are having a girl! ...............................And a boy.

Kiosk sales people are a part of any mall experience and a group that I usually avoid altogether. Yes-they have a job to do and are very nice people, I'm sure. But the very phrase, "M'am, can I show you something?" sets my eyes into an automatic roll. The kiosks I most avoid are the ones that sell the products from the Dead Sea. You know-the salt scrubs, mineral nail buffers, etc. Mostly because years ago, I made the mistake of making eye contact and was sucked into a lengthy sales fest, of which, practically required a lifeguard and safety ring to pull me out. I admit I did enjoy the beautiful Israeli accent of the sales person. Anyway, flash forward a few years and here I am walking the mall taking care of some little errands when suddenly, I find myself approaching the Dead Sea kiosk. I immediately avert my eyes, and consider talking to myself just to deter them. I hear the sales lady calling after me and in my stone cold walk, refuse to turn around. Finally she says, "Miss-you dropped something!" Are you kidding me? Right here? In front of this kiosk? Mayday! Mayday! (I did like the fact that I was actually called miss instead of m'am.) Moving on. Eye contact was made. Soon I found myself in the middle of many familiar sales lines. "Personal space" did not exist. I was lectured about the importance of self-pampering and asked how I could possibly be a good mother if my cuticles were neglected?! I think I was called "honey" (which with the accent came out as hoe-knee) no less than 4,136 times.I spent 10 minutes feeling insulted while I was being educated on my "hippo-dermis" until it dawned on me that there was a bit more of a language barrier than I had originally discerned. In any case, after several attempts to get away and one desperate use of the, "Hey look! What's that over there?" trick(ok not really but it almost got to that point), I made it out unscathed. I am not saying the products don't work. It's just the pushy way in which they are sold. In any case, the promise of a scrub taking away stretch marks means little to someone who has had them since the age of 14.