After getting THE ultrasound in the which we found out Captain America is a GIRL:

We headed out to lunch with my inlaws who made a long trip to be with us during the ultrasound. Per tradition, we always head out to Olive Garden after we find out the gender of our womb-ridden child. But this go around, Olive Garden doesn’t taste good to me at all. What DOES taste good to me?
Pita Jungle. I want their Mahi-mahi smothered in cilantro-jalapeno hummus and topped with pico de gallo. I want it everyday. But I can’t have it everyday, so I opted instead to smash tradition with a hammer and scarf an entire plate after finding out the baby inside of me is, in fact, a sweet little bundle of girl that eats exactly like a fully grown man.

After lunch, we took The Girl school clothes shopping. Boy, I’m going to miss the days when she’ll be able to start and finish her school clothes shopping in one place (Old Navy) and for under $100. Also: my kid already has her own style, and she’s got the hot pink GLITTER CLAD slip-on sneakers to prove it. School starts in two days. Until then, I’ll maintain my healthy level of denial that allows me to believe that time has temporarily stopped.
It actually felt like it DID stop for two days while we camped outside of Flagstaff at Lake Ashurst.

I’m not good at camping -it isn’t that I’m a priss that can’t stand to get dirt under her nails. It’s more like: I was raised in the country, and I never felt the need to go to a different country setting and camp to “get away.” Also: I never felt the urge to hunt or fish because Daddy raised beef, and I always had everything I needed right in my own back yard. I didn’t have to go to OZ to figure it out either… I always knew it (minus that one time I spent a year as a 16 year old).
My husband patiently taught me how to cast a fishing pole, and guess what? I’m totally mediocre! Which is to say: I didn’t fail 100% at it! As my husband would say: That’s good enough for the girls I date.
The kids fished, and it was all very Andy Griffith and country music all melded together in one adorable little fishing experience that we will never forget.

We only caught 6 crawdads (and yes, we fished Friday evening, all day Saturday, and even a teensy bit Sunday morning in a last-ditch effort to try and score a trout for the kids).

During the trip, my husband treated me with kid gloves. I felt like such a burden.
1) Because I’m not schooled in the ways of camping and I spent the entire trip sort of floundering around asking, “Whaddya do with dis?”
2) Because I’m pregnant and had to keep finding outhouses that I may or may not have ended up using on account of the fly issue.

The ultrasound tech was just doing her job when she plunged the thingy-maggig into my belly. But BOY HOWDY it brought on a whole slew of painful Braxton Hicks contractions.
Who IS Braxton Hicks, anyway? Satan’s right hand man?
Anyway, by the time I rolled into my gigantic air mattress on Friday night, my head was throbbing. My back was screaming in pain. My chest was tight. My uterus was outright protesting camping in all it’s forms.
And sleep well, I did not.
I woke up early and rolled out of bed.
The Girl and I took a morning walk while The Boys went down the road to the country store for worms and bug repellent.

We fished all morning and within the few minutes we came back to our camp for lunch, I was out cold. I didn’t mean to be. But I was.
The rest of the family roasted “smooshmalllows” and hot dogs while I slept.

My son came into the tent and woke me up. And then he proceeded to fall asleep which I think is a little on the cruel side. My husband soon followed, and it was just me and the girl again. She wanted to play a game.
“How about we play Old Lady?” She asked, handing me a fat stick fashioned to look like a worn out cane, “And you can just sit there and be old?”
I may not be a fisherman, but I’m a helluvan old lady, folks. I NAILED that game.
Here’s a great shot taken shortly after my husband informed my overly-cautious son that there was a chance he could get stabbed by a fish hook if he wasn’t careful about staying out of the way of a cast:

Here’s me rockin’ the Old Lady game again:

And here’s a crane, practicing for it’s Swan Lake debut:

I’ve got to be off to a couple of appointments, so I’ll leave off here with two cliff hangers. Tomorrow you’re in for a real treat.
1) a picture of a cloud that looks exactly like a cow.
2) a series of pictures depicting the proper way to bury washed up crawdad corpses, compliments of my wee ones.

Which One? Which One?

I’ve kept really busy with family lately, and I can’t pick just ONE happening to share. There’s too many.
There’s the day we played a little game called “Food Is Love.” I made it up myself and it is made up of cooking with my kids.
The girl made beingets for breakfast.

The boy helped me make dinner, which they kids both didn’t eat. We set the timer for ten minutes and told them if they didn’t finish their food before the timer went off, they wouldn’t get to eat an Oatmeal Cream Pie.
Well, the timer went off.
They both lost it.

Because those tears can really do something to a person, we gave them a two minute grace period in the which my daughter ate every bite… or so we thought. Half way through her polishing off her Oatmeal Cream Pie, we found corn all over the floor under her chair. She threw it under there.
So we asked her to please cease fire on her cream pie and take care of her corn.

Poor pirate. She really needs to stop throwing her food on the floor. And in case you were worried, we had JUST vacuumed. The floor was clean.
We have taken naps together:

Made music together:

Cleaned up old pioneer forts together:

Took Dad to the allergy doc to test him for all manner of allergies. Turns out he does have ALL manner of allergies. The nurses and doctors were all a-gawk.

We stayed too long at a friend’s house, and the kids conked out:

Jake, again: we are SO sorry. We owe you a case of Red Bulls, or something.
And we also turned 20 weeks:

Hello, Muffin Top.
Also: that is my natural hair… as in: that’s how it dries after I wash it. It’s so bloody indecisive. Am I curly? Am I straight? Am I a pain in the pah-tootie?
Whatever it is, it is getting whipped into shape in a few weeks for my big #27 birthday and I CAN NOT WAIT!
Speaking of things we can not wait for:
THE ultrasound is tomorrow at 9:20 in the morning. Captain America will reveal to us something we’ve been waiting 20 weeks for!
Is Captain America a sweet little girl with a killer left hook?
Or a strong, healthy little boy with a fancy for bladder bouncing? We will find out in due time.
YOU, however, will have to wait because I’m taking a weekend break from blogging. It’s our last weekend together before my sweet girl starts school.
I bought her two shirts the other day.
“Are you excited to wear your shirts to school?” I asked.
“So kids can say that I look cool or that I look dumb?” She asked.
“Who told you THAT?!”
“I don’t know,” she sighed and cradled her chin in her hands, her elbows on her knees, “Just a bully I think. I really hope there’s no bullies in kindergarten.”
Oh sweetness of all good sugar and spice, my DAUGHTER! I love that girl so much. I love her ever more when she’s covered in powdered sugar:

We meant to take two powdered-sugar covered beingets to the girl’s best friend, but the best friend wasn’t home. We brought the treats home, and my son stared and them. And stared at them, and stared at them…
“Mom, can I eat these?” He asked, fairly drooling.
“No, don’t eat those. They are for Hailee.” I said.
And then I went to the bathroom.
When I came out, the treats had been LICKED clean… no more powdered sugar on top.
“SON!” I said, “Did you do this?”
“I didn’t EAT them, Mom. I didn’t!” He proudly defended himself.
Well, that kids knows how to get what he wants. He got to eat BOTH of those treats. No one really wanted them.