Right. I have a blog.

So I haven't blogged in a while. And since this blog is my way of documenting the girls' experiences, I always feel guilty when I fall behind. Here is my penance--lots of pictures!


We made a quick trip to Dallas and stayed with Grandad and Mimi. That means there was lots of swimming and good food. The girls would've stayed in the water all day if we'd let them.



First Razorback game of the season. We left the girls at home for the game but game day always provides a good excuse for wearing your cheerleader outfit and striking some poses outside the stadium.




First Day of School. This is Claire's last year of preschool and Arden's first. Guess who wasn't that thrilled to be going (hint--the one with the paci and blankie). Claire is going to the same preschool she's been at the last three years and Arden is going to Mother's Day Out at our church. Oh, and did I mention that I'm the director of that Mother's Day Out? That might help explain my recent blogging drought.
So far both girls are enjoying their schools, although Claire is torn as to whether she wants to stay with her buddies at her "old" school or come with me and Arden. I'm letting her chose, which means a lot of running around for me.


Fall soccer started and Claire's team is named "Fire". Not "The Fire". Just "Fire". For some reason, this really bothers me. But Claire is excited because they get real uniforms and she is number 5. She considers being five years old to be the pinnacle of existence, so getting wear 5 on her back makes her day.

I'm not sure that soccer will turn out to be Claire's calling in life. She has fun playing, but seems to have inherited my level of aggressiveness (none). I overheard her coach telling her to try and take the ball away from the other team and Claire replied, "But I could share it with them and that would be so nice". Not sure how Coach answered that one.

And finally, here is what Arden looks like at Claire's soccer games. She is having a hard time grasping the concept of being "too young" for certain things. We spend the entire game chasing her off the field. When it's her turn to play next fall, I don't think we'll be worrying about her level of agression though.

His and Hers

Yesterday at the grocery store a lady approached me and asked if my girls were sisters. When I said yes, she exclaimed, "I can't believe it! They don't look anything alike!" I just smiled and nodded politely. "Yes, they do have different features."

She went on and on about how she'd never seen two sisters look so different and look! one has blue eyes and other brown! And this one has blonde hair and that one brown! It's so strange!

I considered telling her they had different dads, just to shut her up, but was afraid Claire would repeat it--probably in Sunday School.




***for the record, they do have the same dad.

The Good Fight

Two weeks ago, Jason's Papaw went to Heaven. That's how we explained his passing to Claire. She thought for a minute and then asked if Grandma Norma was sad. When we said yes, we were all sad, Claire looked puzzled and got quiet. Then with great confidence she said, "We don't have to be sad. Papaw is in Heaven with Jesus and God."



Thank goodness for children, who see so clearly what we as adults often complicate and ultimately screw up. Yes, Papaw is in Heaven with Jesus and God. There is no doubt. He was a man of great faith who was fully devoted to his God and family. All you have to do is look at his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to see that.



My girls probably won't remember Papaw. That makes me sad. But his great influence on their dad will carry through to them. That fills me with joy. As Jason said at the funeral, Papaw didn't leave behind riches or material things, but his legacy of faith and love will be felt for generations to come.



I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me a crown of righteousness.
1 Timothy 4:7-8

Arden vs. The Potty--Round 1

Round one goes to Arden. She is a stubborn girl and has completely refused to have anything to do with the potty. Occasionally, she will sit on it for a millisecond and then jump off, proudly proclaiming, "I did it! I did it!" Um, not exactly.

Arden's current strategy of potty training avoidance involves shifting the blame.

Me:Arden, are you stinky?
Arden (wide-eyed innocence): No, sissy.
Me: Sissy is not stinky. She goes on the potty.
Arden: Daddy.
Me: Daddy is at work. It's not Daddy.
pause
Arden: Cow poop.

Efforts to shame her into going on the potty have failed as well.

Me: Arden, big girls go on the potty.
blank stare
Me: Sissy goes on the potty.
Arden: Daddy?
Me: Yes, Daddy goes on the potty.
Arden: Mommy?
Me: Yes, Mommy goes on the potty.
Arden: Nana?
Me: Yes, Nana goes on the potty.
Arden: Jack?
Me: Yes, Grandad goes on the potty.
Arden: Maw-Maw?
Me: Yes, Grandma goes on the potty.
Arden: NO!
Me: Yes, she does.
Arden: No! No No Maw-Maw potty.

Round one may go to Arden, but we're not out of the fight yet. I do have a bad feeling I may be buying one of those musical potties soon though.

No Boys Allowed

I think this must be posted somewhere in my uterus, because baby #3 is a GIRL!!!!

Three girls. That's going to take some time to sink in. But who wouldn't be excited about the thought of all those sweet sisters and a houseful of hot pink tutus and ribbons and barbie dolls?

Jason, of course, is already fretting over financing three weddings, but not to worry--we've arranged their marriages to the Bowman boys.

Claire is disappointed that she won't be getting a brother after all. She said she has enough sisters already.

And Arden is too busy wreaking havoc to care too much about the baby in my tummy.

Three girls. Sounds just about perfect to me.

Oh, The Irony

So remember how last week I threw kind of a tantrum about not getting scheduled for an ultrasound? No? Well, don't read the previous post. But if you do remember, I have an update for you.

I am fortunate to have married into a family with connections--medical connections. And when they heard about the Great Ultrasound Fiasco of '08, they got riled up. And started making things happen. Now, I'm not saying we're like some kind of rural health care mafia or anything, but--badabing--the next thing you know, I'm getting an ultrasound at an undisclosed location (I just said that to make it more dramatic)this morning and the new OB clinic is calling to schedule one for next week.

So I got my way. The Big Ultrasound. The Am I Keeping All This Pink Stuff or Buying New Blue Stuff? Appointment.

Unfortunately, I did not get an answer to that question. Seems Baby #3 is a bit modest and wasn't too keen on the invasion of his/her privacy. Baby even flipped all the way around during the ultrasound, keeping his/her legs tightly closed the entire time.

The good news is that all the important things looked great and baby is healthy and growing. Just very uncooperative.

The Problem with Being Pregnant

I'm normally a pretty nice person. At least, I think I am. Although after seeing a picture of myself in a local magazine, I have some serious doubts about the perception I have of myself and reality (side note: how long has my hair been that dingy color and why didn't anyone tell me? also, do I have a lazy eye?). I have my moments but generally, I'm nice enough.

I'm not always the most rational person, especially in situations that aren't going the way I'd like them to go. But luckily, the "nice" factor keeps the irrationality in check.

Unless I am pregnant. And unless the situation at hand is in reference to my pregnancy.

Several months ago, the geniuses that run the hospital where I delivered Arden concluded that all women are morons who don't know how to choose their own health care providers, because clearly, if we knew what we were doing we'd choose a female doctor. This conclusion prompted the severing of ties with all the male doctors in the women's clinic affiliated with the hospital (incidentally, the practice was started many years ago by the very doctors they let go).

I have nothing against female doctors, obviously. The OB who delivered Claire was a woman and I absolutely loved her. She is, without a doubt, the most dedicated, patient, kindest doctor I've ever known. If anyone has ever met their calling, it is Dr. Hays. But the fact is, I didn't choose her simply because she was a woman. I chose her because she was dedicated and patient and kind (also incredibly smart and had very cute hair).

When we moved here, I was very newly pregnant with Arden. I had to chose a new OB and I found one that I liked very much--who just happened to be male.

When word of the hospital's forward-thinking new policy on women's health choices spread, I knew what my choice would be. When the day came, I would follow my OB to his new practice, even if it meant driving an extra 20 minutes out of my way.

That day has come and I found myself calling the new clinic this week to schedule an appointment. The Appointment. The Ultrasound appointment. The Am I Keeping All This Pink Stuff or Buying New Blue Stuff appointment.

I was mildly (extremely) disappointed when the receptionist informed me that the first available appointment was a month away. If this were my first pregnancy, I'd be panicking at the thought of going six weeks between appointments, but this time around I'm just irritated at having to wait an extra two weeks before finding out the gender of this baby. After making a few grumbling comments about how I was glad I called the clinic instead of waiting around for them to call me like they were SUPPOSED TO TWO WEEKS AGO, I decided to let it go. On to more important details.

Me : So this will be my ultrasound, right?
Her, surprised: No, we've never seen you before. I can't schedule an ultrasound for you without ever seeing you.
Me: But I'll be twenty weeks! It's The Appointment.
Her: Well, we've never seen you before. And we don't even know Dr. P. We can't do an ultrasound until we have a diagnosis.
pause
Me, confused: Diagnosis of WHAT?
Her, pausing slightly as if I should already know this answer: Pregnancy.
Me, laughing hysterically and looking at my soccer ball belly: You want me to take a pregnancy test?!
Her: Well, we need to see you before we schedule anything else.

I won't recap the whole thing here, but let's just say the conversation went downhill from there. Add to that the fact that I called again today to rehash the whole situation and I'm sure I have a big "CRAZY PREGNANT LADY" (or worse) stamp on my chart now. I definitely didn't come across as nice. Or rational.

But at least I can blame it on my hormones. Wonder what HER excuse is?