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Doctor Doctor (Have Mercy on Me)

15 Jul

On Tuesday, the OB/GYN (otherwise known as the “baby doctor” in my house) took a gander up my va-jay-jay to check on the status of my Cervix of Doom.

I only call it the Cervix of Doom because the Cervix of Rainbows and Puppy Dogs just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

I haven’t had an “exam” by the doctor since my very first visit and I’m pretty sure that this is going to be the only one unless I want more down the line. I was excited, but not really for the appointment since (1) it takes a lot of friggin’ effort to prepare for that kind of exam, and (2) I was pretty sure I would cry if told that I’m locked up tight down there.

The preparation process for this type of appointment (aka: spread your legs and cough) is long and frightful. First of all, it takes me forever to shave my legs when I’m NOT pregnant, so add in a belly the size of Pluto and the balance of a drunken, one-legged ally cat and, as you’d imagine, it takes considerably longer.

And don’t even get me started on “the nether regions”. I mean, shit, I’m like Helen Keller trying to feel around down there. I have NO idea what it looks like anymore (I’m guessing some sort of overgrown jungle/70’s porno film) and the poor thing probably doesn’t look any better once I’m done trying to tame it. My strategy consists of just going full-throttle with the razor, hoping to hit anything shave-able. I’m sure now it’s looks like I’ve got some sort of weird patchy chemo hair “down there”.

Side Note: For those of you women who are going to suggest I get waxed down there: For shame. Like I’m not uncomfortable enough, people?! I feel no need to be subjected to that kind of pain unless there is going to be a baby out of my womb at the end of it. Kthnxbei.

By the morning of my appointment, I finally just decided that my doctor surely has seen things more fucked up than my butt-gina. If not, then she can thank me later for the story to tell her co-workers.

To thoroughly prepare for the appointment, I chugged my normal 50 gallons of liquid to only get shy bladder and squeeze out a few drops for their precious test (which sometimes just feels like a psychological test for pregnant woman: What won’t a pregnant woman do for her doctor? I guess preparing her vagina for surgery just to pee in a cup isn’t on that list…).

Due to my history of butt issues, I even skipped the morning coffee in fear of getting, for lack of a better phrase, the shits. You see, this week I not only got the va-jay-jay check, but also got the “Strep B swab”. Which is the doctor’s butt-friendly way of saying, “I’m going to shove a Q-tip up your ass now.”

And let me tell you, she wasn’t lying. I think I felt that Q-tip in my throat, she went so far in my bum hole.

Luckily the lack of coffee didn’t interfere with the swabbing. My nervous farting, however, had me convinced that the minute I put my feet in to the stirrups, I was going to fart directly in my doctor’s face.

I swear you have never seen a woman, or anyone for that matter, squeeze their ass cheeks together so tight while spreading their legs where the sun don’t shine. It took some finesse, ladies and gentlemen. But in the end (rim shot! [another rim shot for saying RIM shot!]), my doctor got to see up my vag and swab out my butt in peace.

You know, as much peace as one can have staring at my butt-gina.

The rest of the appointment, post poke and swab, made up for the intestinal issues. First of all, the doc told me that even though second-borns are usually bigger than their older siblings AND boys are usually bigger than girls, she predicts that Cletus will be about 8 pounds if I go full term. Since Bee was 7 pounds, 14 ounces, at least I feel like I can handle that again. You know, if by “handle” I mean “let my body be ripped in two by another human being in the not fun kind of way.”

Also, I’m already 1 meter dilated!! Or maybe 1 centimeter. I didn’t really pay that much attention. All I know is that my cervix is no longer being all closed off and distant. While I know I could stay 1 cm dilated for weeks, I’m hoping that walking my ass off, jumping on trampolines and shoving whatever I can find that is 10 cm up my hooey will get the process going soon.

Okay, I’m not really going to do any of that. Mostly because I’m lazy and not very ambitious. Not because it wouldn’t be a good idea.


Song title: Doctor Doctor (Have Mercy on Me) by Ray Stevens

Spring Training

18 May

Okay, first of all, I need to apologize to all of you that spent last week sitting vigil at your computers awaiting a new Mom to Bee post in vain.

Wait, what?


You aren’t just hanging on my every foul word? God dammit.

Anywho, there is a totally good reason for my recent absence (you know, other than pure laziness. Can you be considered lazy when you are creating another human being inside of you? I mean, what have YOU done today? I percolated LIFE, asshole).

I’ve been on-call for the last few weeks because…wait for it…I potty trained Bee (yes, it took me three years to get off my ass and potty train my kid. Shut it.)!!

And it took, no really, 3 days.

Nope, that’s not a typo. THREE DAYS. Only!

Don’t get me wrong, the first two days I was pretty much ready to kill someone (namely, Bee). Our first step was to finally get Bee some big girl underpants (duh). After raiding Target for all things Disney, Mickey Mouse and Hello Kitty (sidenote: Hey sexist underwear creators? My daughter REALLY wanted Cars underwear but they only come in boy! I really wanted to avoid the “Why do these have a weird hole in the front?” and eventual trying to PEE out of that hole, so fuck you, Underwear Creators.), we headed home on a Sunday night and put her in her new underpants for a few hours before bedtime.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Bee to catch a strange look on Bee’s face and we immediately swooped in and threw her upon her froggie training seat in the kitchen. Sure enough, she started to poop on the potty for the first time!

But that’s not the best part. While she was pinching one off, it totally captivated her. As she watched the, uh, process, she declared, “I see a mouse!”

Yes, darling, a poop mouse is coming out of your butt. Awesome!

Then, even better: “I think I see a tail!!”

Cue Mr. Bee vomiting in his mouth and me rolling on the floor in a hysterical fit of laughter.

Mr. Bee still dry heaves when I tell that story, but I, on the other hand, tried like hell to get it to catch on. But no matter how many times I ask Bee is she needs to make a Poop Mouse, she just won’t entertain my craziness. She’s kinda selfish like that.

And that was the beginning and the end of our initial potty training success. The next two days consisted of Bee peeing pretty much everywhere in the house like she was a cat in heat. With a incontinence problem. While drunk.

It took all of my will power to not grab her by the shoulders and scream, “You are one of the smartest kids I know!! Moms in the neighborhood talk about how intelligent you are! NOW STOP SHITTING YOURSELF!!!”

But instead, I took some Xanax shots deep breathes and let her come to the realization on her own that shitting one’s self, while obviously having some benefits, was not something that big girls do.

Then came Wednesday.


She was potty trained. I’m not shitting you (cue rim shot). She went almost two weeks without a single accident and the one that she has had was just due to her not being able to get to the potty quick enough at home.

So the good news is: my little iddy biddy bebe is a big girl now.

The bad news is: now I have a Costco metric shit ton of size 4 diapers.

But hell, I still pee myself when I sneeze/cough/laugh/breathe/am awake so maybe I can find a use for them after all…

Song title: Spring Training by Wharton Tiers


8 Apr

I’m sure it’s been clear to my tens of readers that lately I have been kind of full of the writers block. Let’s be honest, I used to post at least four times a week and now I’m averaging…

(does math in head)

(still doing math)

(resorts to computer calculator only to be distracted by all the pretty colored buttons)

Okay, so let’s just say, I don’t post as often as I should. For that, I’m sorry. You know, for not posting for you and that you don’t have anything better to do then read this POS blog! Har har.

Originally, my excuse was that Cletus sucked all the energy, creativity, and ability to not open my eyes without wanting to vomit all over you right out of me.

For like four months.

It was awesome.

You know, if you use the old Pig Latin definition of “wesome-ay”, meaning “of the horribleness. See also: wanting to die and/or poke ones eyeballs out with dull spoons.”

But for the last couple months, it hasn’t been all that bad. I’m definitely in the “nom nom nom I like food” stage of pregnancy, which, let’s be honest, is pretty fucking rad. You know, until I have to get on the dreaded scale at the doctor’s office.

Oh, and how do I know that I’m officially in the “nom nom nom” stage of the pregnancy? Well, I think it hit me the other day while I was peeing and a raisin fell out from one of my belly rolls (or cleavage, because let’s be honest, Mama ain’t used to having, well, ANY cleavage). See, I had eaten some raisins like HOURS prior to this pee session.

Yummy, huh? I eat so much that I can literally hide food in my clothes and/or rolls without finding it for long periods of time.

Sexy, I know.

But besides finding Thanksgiving meals in my belly button, things have been going great around Das Bee Haus. No explosive pooping (don’t get me wrong, peeing is a whole different issue). (Almost) no reasons or situations that make with wish for Xanax. Bee is relatively not monsterish most days. I’m finally prego with my long awaited second (and final!) squishee widdle bebe. I am loving Mr. Bee to bits and pieces. Even in this shit economy, we’re doing great.

Which is all, well, great. You know, for me.

But for the blog? Not so much! I mean how much do you want to hear about how I shit rainbows and ride unicorns to the land of the blueberries every day? Even *I* don’t want to hear or write about it and it’s my life.

So while everything is peachy keen in the land of happy fuzzy love balls, you can’t really blame me for wishing and hoping for a little explosive poop action once in a while, right?

The things I do for you people.

Song title: Stumped by Caterwaul

The Spirit of 2009

4 Jan

It seems like now that the new year is here, everyone is declaring their two-thousand-and-hate for 2009. For some reason, I was really surprised at all the “OMG, 2009 sucked my cornhole! Happy NYE!” updates on Facebook last week. Maybe it’s just me (and I’m sure that there is some likelihood that it is just me), but I didn’t think 2009 was all that bad.

But hear me out, people, because gawd knows I didn’t have a smooth ride of it.

First let’s remember that I spent roughly 8 months of 2009 shitting myself. On my awesome scale, that ranks right around getting my vag sewn up for 45 minutes after getting Bee ripped from my vag.

Side note: it occurred to me the other day that I haven’t written, in detail of course because duh, about my Bee birth story. It’s more of a Bee-forcefully-ripped-from-my-baby-hole story, but I’ll get to that later.

Next, to deal with my ass-exploding problems, I started pooping, I mean popping pills (legal and prescribed, just to be clear) and saw a therapist for the first time in my life.

I made new friends and lost some friends.

I/we struggled to get pregnant for 12 months. That’s a lot of sex, people. 2009 was exhausting, yo.

Mr. Bee lost so much blood that he got a free trip to the ER with a complimentary blood transfusion. Oh wait, that shit wasn’t free? Damn!

But even with all that (literal) shit to deal with, I still can’t say that 2009 was total suckage. Mr. Bee is now back to 90, okay, 80, okay 75 percent, but with all those issues I think we’ve gotten a better hold on some of his symptoms.

Through my poo issues and therapy, not only did I recognize behavior and symptoms I’ve been having all my life in response to anxiety and agoraphobia, but I also got amazing feedback on difficult personal relationships that I was dealing with.

Mama Bee’s Advice to Live By: Don’t make someone a priority in your life when you are only an option in theirs.

And even better, I came away in 2009 with a reconnection with a old friend that, sweet Flying Spaghetti Monster, I really needed! The timing really couldn’t have been better.

Probably most frustrating was spending all year “trying” for a baby. As every month drifted by, I couldn’t help but think of how much bigger the age gap between kids was getting. But struggling for Cletus reminded us to be thankful for what we have and to not take anything for granted (especially how easy you think it will be to get knocked up).

So even though 2009 was filled with our fair share of bodily fluids, and I can’t believe I’m actually going to post these words, everything we went through had a purpose.

If the only lesson I took away from last year is that needles in your vagina can impregnate you, then I consider 2009 a success.

Song title: The Spirit of 2009 by Dada

The Next Step

12 Nov

After last week’s disappointment, I was thrilled yesterday to go to my very first acupuncture treatment for fertility (and a little bit for anxiety).

Appropriately, I began the appointment by being retardedly nervous. See, since information is my one true love (you know, besides Mr. Bee of course) I had tried my best to research the crap out of acupuncture prior to the appointment. But you’d actually be surprised with what little information is out there about where in your vagina they stick the needles.


Overall, the appointment was pretty non-eventful. The pretty little office was located (and still is *rim shot*) between Patty Murray and Maria Cantwell’s offices in Tacoma which, being the nerd I am, was pretty cool. I asked if Maria would be joining us but the receptionist just looked at me like it was a totally ridiculous question. Rude much?

After explaining why shoving needles in to me would totally be a good use of a senator’s time, my super sweet acupuncturist brought me back to The Room…

The Room was a dark and cold dungeon-like space lit only by candles…

Oh wait, no, no it wasn’t.

Sorry, since my appointment was so not story-worthy, I’m feeling the need to embellish a little. The Room was actually a warm and lovely little room with a massage table.

See? Not very story-worthy.

After an hour of discussing the consistency of my bowel movements and size of my menstrual clots (okay, maybe it is story-worthy), I was told to take off my shoes, socks and tee shirt and lay down on the comfy massage table.

I don’t know why the acupuncturist got nervous when I asked where the stirrups were and when I’d have to take off my pants.

Laying on my tummy, I got one needle in the top of my head (to release all the hot air, I presume), one in my right wrist, one in my left foot and about a dozen or so in parallel lines on either side of my spine. I was told to expect some cool Qi sensations but I guess my Qi took the day off because all I felt was my anxiety picking up. I mean, what if I got a stomach ache during the treatment?!

I think we can all appreciate the horror of having explosive poo while you have a needle in your foot and needles all the way down your back.

Needless to say, the relaxation breathing technique went from recommended to goddamn necessary real quick.

Overall, the experience was pretty cool and I’m looking forward to next week’s appointment. Now that I kind of know what to expect, I’m hoping to enjoy the experience instead of having to concentrate on not pooping all over the massage table.

In the meantime, I’m trying to transition from being a 30 year old to being approximately 75.

What do I mean, you ask?

Well, besides the crazy nutritional requirements (you mean, I’m supposed to eat vegetables???) and weird ass bone marrow soup I’m supposed to make myself (yeah, I might wait a while to dive in to that one), I also was given approximately 1800 new supplements to add to my daily regimen.

And by “given” I mean they cost like $90. OUCH!

So yes, I’ve had to start using one of these:

Oh God, I'm old.

I shit you not, people. Look how many pills I have to take every day:

At last count, that's about 900 pills I have to take a day.

This definitely goes on the list of Shit I Will Make Cletus the Fetus Feel Guilty About When He/She is Finally Conceived.

And yes, I’ll start the guilt trips as early as conception.

Song title: The Next Step by Island Rhythms

Who I Am

9 Oct

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from confronting my newly discovered “issues” it’s that I’m going to be learning a lot.

Being a Psychology Major, I already am captivated by analyzing my physiological responses to outside stimuli and when and where it happens.

But a difficult life lesson that I’m struggling with is adjusting to my new life of psychological issues and conveying the seriousness (to me) of my problems to other people in my life. While I have found a few fantastic people in my life that I can talk to about my issues, I still fear that people don’t fully understand what is going on in my head and/or body. I’m not even used to labeling myself as an agoraphobe and panic attacky, so how can I expect others to?

I even had to have a sit down conversation with Mr. Bee about how, despite my tough exterior, I am really sensitive right now and need to be treated with kid gloves. That’s when he responded with a compliment and a problem all wrapped up in to one, “I just have a really hard time seeing you as fragile!”

And even recently, while dining with friends, we got in to a conversation about being emotional and I talked freely about the fact that I could easily cry at a moments notice. This is not a recent development. I’ve always been quite the cry-baby (ask Sissy). Of course in the normal course of any social activity with my friends, I don’t usually burst out in to tears, so when they all responded in shock that I am “that girl” it really made me realize that who I am and who people perceive me to be could be drastically different.

What people see: A funny, confident and outgoing woman.

What’s going on inside: An insecure girl who never quite feels like she is fitting in.

What people see: A social butterfly.

What’s going on inside: Someone who constantly suffers from what I’ve deemed “friend paranoia”, which is when you become convinced that your friends are really annoyed by you and don’t like you anymore.

The problem is: I am fragile right now. For the first time in my life, I actually have to convince myself to attend some social situations when the panic and anxiety get overwhelming. And even though my new medication has taken away my painful (and horribly inconvenient) stomach cramps and Exploding Butt Syndrome (trademark!), it seems that those stomach aches were distracting me from the real underlying panic symptoms, such as freaking the fuck out right before a big event.

While I was initially irritated when people didn’t respond right away (or at all) to my new-found crazy, I soon began to realize that my crazies are totally internal and it’s not like I really explain my insecurities to everyone I meet. I mean, I’m usually too busy describing my most recent bout of explosive diarrhea (because, let’s be honest, that seems to be what fascinates most of my readers and friends. Weirdos.) to fit in to how insecure I am when it comes to my interpersonal relationships and social situations.

I suppose we all see what people want us to see when it comes to friends and acquaintances. But how do you know that what you are seeing isn’t just a facade to distract you from what’s going on inside?

Song title: Who I Am by Jessica Andrews

Sick to My Stomach

1 Oct

Funny story.

Remember that one time, long long ago, when I said I was totally getting better.

Yeah. Um, not so much.

Apparently the shits were just scared off momentarily by the menstrual cramps.

And Keegan and Greg, you wonder why you are like the only two boys who comment/read the blog? (Please reference previous sentence.)

As a dear friend suggested, it is highly likely that my ass and my vagina have decided to gang up against me. The latest theory is that they are angry about their personal bizzle being published on the internet for everyone to read and so they are rebelling against me until I cease and desist.

But the joke’s on them, because it simply gives me more to blog about, which is more than a little disturbing for me to admit to myself.

Besides the constant use of the toilet, I don’t feel half bad. I am getting a bit dehydrated and am totally dependent on my eye drops because my contacts are getting really dried out. Yum.

The silver lining to the shits and the blindness is that I’ve officially lost about four pounds this week!

I know, I know, you aren’t really supposed to depend on bulimia a stomach bug as a reliable dieting plan, but I’m only about one and a half more viruses away from my goal weight!

I should get on the Wii Fit today just to weigh myself and tell that chubby little Mii character to fuck off.

Song title: Sick to My Stomach by Siegel-Schwall Band

Bloody Bitch

30 Sep

Remember how yesterday I said that I’d give anything to not be explosively pooping out my butt (or any other orifice thankyouverymuch) anymore?

Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly say it on the blog (or out loud) but I was thinking it. Loudly. In my head. Maybe.

Well, apparently my totally made up wish has been granted.

The poo flood of ’09 has receded only to be replaced with ridiculous hunger from two days of my body forcefully expelling anything I did dare eat.

Oh, and did I mention the stupid menstrual cramps?

Right-o. 48 straight hours of grossness just to be topped off with sure-I-knew-I-would-be-pregnant-because-I’m-doomed-to-be-barren-and/or-Bee-will-be-retiring-before-I-get-knocked-up-again-so-of-course-I-would-get-my-period-but-why-do-I-suddenly-have-cramps-too?!

Holy shit, that was a lot of hyphens.

HyPHens, you sickos. With a PH.

Anyway, the moral of the story is that this week sucks some pretty sweaty monkey balls.

I’m going to go enjoy these menstrual cramps now while, hopefully, squeezing in a nap before Bee wakes up.

And maybe eat some chocolate. That’s the cure-all for cramps right?

Song title: Bloody Bitch by Insane Clown Posse

Hose Me Down

29 Sep

This morning marks Day #2 of my food poisoning fun (otherwise known as Mama Bee’s Record Breaking Pooping – if you call shooting water out of your ass “pooping” – Day).

It’s almost as if the universe knows that I need blogging material and sent a nice batch of colon evacuating bacteria my way.

You’re welcome.

Today is also my Mommy’s Morning Out Tuesday (otherwise known as I Have The Awesomest MIL In The Universe And You Are Totally Jealous Day).

Luckily for me, that means I can spend the morning in my pajamas tucked away in the bedroom bathroom while Bee spends the morning watching westerns with Grandma.

Unluckily for me, that means I get to spend the morning that would have originally been spent shopping and having a follow-up appointment with my crazytown nurse on the toilet instead.

So I’ve traded one form of explosive shits for another.

Oooh, the irony.

Song title: Hose Me Down by Save the Wawona

Weakness of the Body

28 Sep

I am falling apart.

Almost kind of literally.

See, last night I had a delicious dinner at a local Pacific NW-known establishment (it rhymes with SchmIvar’s), and I’m pretty sure that they served me death (or) aids (or, maybe more realistically) some bad seafood.

All I know is that ever since I woke up this morning, I’ve had poo shooting energetically out my ass.

Yes, I said it. Energetically.

No pain, no cramping, but basically a firehose of poo water reminiscent of you-know-what.

On top of that, I haven’t eaten anything today in fear that any food may somehow remain intact and I have to endure an entire whole bagel being forced out my butthole at roughly the speed of light.

Not fun, my friends. Not fun.

Oh and did I also mention that I totally sprained (Google MD diagnosis) a ligament in my food (or my FOOT, if you want to be all spell-checky and whatnot, geesh!) by sitting on it wrong.


I’m so fat that I broke (okay fine, it didn’t break) my own foot.

Laugh it up, Chuckles. Laugh. It. Up.

And the pièce de résistance is that I was (okay, and still am a little even though my basal temp says differently) completely convinced that I am knocked up.

This last week or so I’ve been nauseous, light-headed, and totally exhausted. In fact, my really horrible blogging the last few days is a direct result of my napping during Bee’s nap times instead of blogging.

But just for shits and giggles, I thought I would look up the side effects of the new medication that I’ve been taking for the last two weeks (see a correlation yet, people?).


The medication’s side effects are pretty much EVERY. SINGLE. pregnancy symptoms minus having a goddamn fetus in my uterus.


To end on a high note, I got to see the musical Wicked last week and it was, for a lack of a better term, wicked. But for serious, it was truly amazing and I recommend it to anyone who loves, well, anything. It’s that good.

Also, a quick shout out to the Mom to Bee reader in the cream colored cable knit sweater who was sitting a few rows over from Sissy and I. My dear old Dad pointed you out to me and I was going to go introduce myself, but then I chickened out.

You’re welcome.

Song title: Weakness of the Body by Judy Torres