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.

As I was driving the kids home from school yesterday, this interesting conversation took place between my girls. Maddie says, "I think I want to be a boy." Trying not to laugh I let her keep going. Abi says, "But you are a girl." "Well I know that Abi- but today I just want to be a boy. Boys don't have babies." Then my little therapist asks her sister, "Maddie, why not?" "Well it does hurt Abi." Abi then confidently says, "Maddie, the shots don't hurt so bad when you are older. It might not even hurt!"

This is funny to me because of it's random nature but also because years and years ago, I remember hearing the news that my Aunt Patty was having her first baby. I didn't know exactly what having a baby entailed but just that it seemed scary. I remember consoling myself with the thought that it isn't scary when you are a grown-up. Grown-ups were brave and fearless and apparently didn't feel much pain. And my girls haven't learned all the details yet but they do remember coming to get blood drawn while I was pregnant with Seth. And that is what has stood out to them the most about being pregnant (if only shots were the worst of it). It was another good opportunity to explain the gift of having a baby- that it's worth every thing you go through. And that nothing can explain the moments when your new little one is handed to you. They liked hearing that. It was a sweet Mommy daughter moment. Then Maddie ends with. "I think I'll adopt."

I really have slacked on the blogging haven't I? But then again, I really didn't have much to report. The kids are still funny and life is still busy and we still miss Shawn. I would love to say that I have put backings on all our family quilts or canned 2 years worth of food storage or alphabetically labeled my entire house since the introduction of the new year. Alas, 'tis not so. However, I am happy of one accomplishment. I have officially ended my first trimester and am moving on to the second of the newest little Clark. Now the question is, redhead or brunette?

The man I love to hate!

For those of you who don't know, this is Rick Steves:




He is a travel author, TV travel host, avid piano player, the list goes on. Over the years, I would catch his show on PBS and reluctantly be swept away as he strolled through many European cities, talking to sheep and wearing Lederhosen. Why with reluctance you ask? My heart was clouded with envy. That's it-pure envy. I would ask out loud to the TV set, "Why Rick?". "Why do you get to have this cool-times-a-gazillion job? Why do you get to crack lame jokes with french puns while standing in the Luberon? After all, you have an almost squeaky voice and wear 1980's glasses." Or I would say something like, " Blah blah blah Rick! Who doesn't have a real Irish wool sweater?!" Well no longer. I will not let this negativity keep our friendship from blossoming Rick. I will no longer pretend not to laugh at your jokes just to hurt you. I will confess that you deserve this job. You are more than good at it and you are actually a good guy (he and his wife sunk their retirement into an apartment complex and turned it into a safehouse for women). I will walk by my complete boxed set of your Europe Through the Back Door DVD's without rolling my eyes. And I will no longer stick my tongue out at you during your 17 step spa treatment in Baden-Baden. So here's to you Rick-glasses and all. You are, without a doubt, the Man.