Man, I miss not having enough time, energy or sanity to write posts right now. I have birth posts, posts featuring my first mental breakdown with two kids and posts about just the random awesomeness that is my life (please detect the sarcasm here) just floating around in my head!

I love that you are all still checking back for posts and I super duper triple promise that I will be back the second that I figure out how to wrangle Bee, nurse Bug and type no-handed on my computer!!

PS: I highly recommend not sneezy while sporting a c-section incision unless you want to feel like your abdomen is ripping open. Unless you like that kind of thing.

Song title: Miss You, Love You by Maroon 5

Kids are awesome.

But as parents, we all know a little secret.

Our own kids are Full of the Awesome.

You know, more than your kids.

We try not to brag. Maybe we might mention that it only took 2 1/2 days for our kid to potty train, she might impress doctors and nurses at wellness checks (minus the physical milestones, of course!), and sure, maybe we video her every move.

But let me preface this post (too late!) with: Dude. Seriously. I’m not trying to brag. But dude.

Bee totally blew my infantile and, let’s be honest, only a few points away from mentally retarded brain yesterday.

See, yesterday was Mr. Bee’s birthday. (Happy Birthday, Mr. Bee!!) While I was busy signing my birthday card for Mr. (which may or may not said something along the lines of “holy shit, you are so old that you used to play pool with Jesus”), I gave Bee her card to sign.

Unsurprisingly, this is what she produced:

Totally normal for a three year old, right? It was exactly what I expected, I had just hoped it would entertain for longer since I wasn’t done writing on Mr. Bee’s “What was it like having to run away from pterodactyls?” birthday card.

So I tossed the envelope for Bee’s card toward her and just said, “Here you go! Can you write ‘Dad’ on it?” expecting a whole bunch more lines and hopefully a few more seconds to finish my card.

A minute later, Bee says, “All done!” and pushes this my way:

What. The. Fuck?!

I’m pretty sure I’ve solidified my running for Mother of the Year Award 2010 with my actual response to Bee being:

“HOLY SHIT, BEE!!”

Seriously, people. She just WROTE “DAD”!!! WTF!!!

Needless to say, my mind is completely blown! Mr. Bee’s too, but he’s more curious how genius skipped a generation with us…

Okay, by “us” he means me.

Song title: Einstein’s Daughter by The Nields

A week or so ago, I had that one OB/GYN appointment that everyone dreads…

The one where they open your vagina up like a can of sardines? Nope. Kind of used to that by now.

The one where they swab your butt with a giant Q-tip testing for God knows what (oh, and also ask if they can bring some medical interns in to watch, too? Well, sure. The whole fucking hospital has seen my butt-gina at this point, so the more, the merrier, right?)? Nope. It kinda tickles.

It’s the appointment where your nerves, intestinal fortitude and ability to time your drinking all come together in a cacophony of disgustingness.

That’s right, ladies and gentleman, it’s the Glucose/Gestational Diabetes test.

For the delightfully ignorant, when you are finally feeling like eating shit during your pregnancy, your doctor will try to mindfuck you by forcing you to drink a bottle of what looks like harmless fruit juice. The only catch is that you have to imbibe this drink within a 5 minute time period. AND drink it a half-hour prior to your doctor’s appointment.

The purpose of this modern torture method is to test your blood later and determine if your body is metabolizing sugar appropriately (aka: do you have Gestational Diabetes?). Of course by the time they draw your blood, you are so cracked out on The Drink so much that the mere thought of eating anything with sugar in it again kind of makes you want to toss your cookies in to the test tube.

The first time I had to drink The Drink was with Bee (duh). Since my doctor’s office was a few light years away from my house, I timed my trip so that I could just hang out in the parking garage prior to my appointment and casually drink The Drink while listening to some tunes.

Oh, I remember how cocky I was. “This little drink? In five minutes? No problem!!” I cackled confidently to myself. “What’s the big deal?!” as I made note of the time on my watch and popped the lid on The Drink.

One gulp.

“What. The. Fuck. Is. This. Shit?! This is gonna suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.” I thought as The Drink attempted it’s way back UP my gullet.

See, The Drink is kind of like Kool-Aid on crack. I think the best description (of maybe the least foul flavor available) would be a water bottle full of Kool-Aid plus roughly 87 hundred thousand cups of sugar. If it sounds at all good, please don’t be fooled. It’s fucking foul.

After about two or three gulps, I realized that:
(1) I apparently don’t like sugar as much as I thought.
(2) Five minutes, which seemed like five years prior to my first gulp, now seemed like five seconds.
(3) The bigger challenge was going to be not vomiting in my mouth and/or all over my car interior.

After finally choking down the rest of Satan’s Phlegm (trademark!), I went on to successfully passed the test with flying colors.

So when this pregnancy’s test came around, you probably wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the date was marked “EVIL DRINK DAY” in my calendar.

But when I finally grew the cajones to take my first gulp, I realized something…

Satan’s Phlegm (trademark!) could never be as horrible as the Devil’s Semen (double trademark!) that I had to drink for my uber-fun colonoscopy prep.

Who said blowing out your colon for no discernible reason doesn’t have it’s benefits?

Song title: Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard

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?

Really?

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.

Poof!

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

The other day, I was sitting with Bee as we thumbed through a Disney Princess storybook. My lovely daughter, who is currently obsessed with my ever-growing prego bewbs, pointed at a photo and said:

“Mommy! She has boobies like you!”

Normally being compared to a Disney character wouldn’t be a problem. Might even be a compliment.

Yeah, uh, not so much.

And then she topped off the compliment with, “And she’s growing big like you!!”

Excuse me while I go kill myself.

Song title: Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson

Monday was Bee’s 3-year Wellness Check with her pediatrician. Since most of you own have children, I don’t need to say how much I was NOT in the mood for Bee to freak the fuck out at the doctor’s office.

But I’ll say it anyway. I really wasn’t looking forward to her crying and freaking out while trying to hide in my vagina to avoid all contact with people she doesn’t know.

I’ve been warning her, I only have room in there for one kid at a time. And even Cletus is running out of room (or so it seems when he uses my abdomen and cervix as a trampoline).

So anyway, the last three years have been full of, let’s say, tumultuous doctor’s appointments. Usually she handles everything well as long as no one touches her, examines her or, you know, looks in her general direction. That’s why I have created my own personal Doctor Appointment Warning System:

For example: when we got to our appointment, the first thing they wanted to do was weigh Bee on just a normal scale. We weigh Bee at home occasionally, so I wasn’t too worried. LEVEL BLUE

Next, they charted how tall she was. Again, we do this at home, but who knows if she will stand still long enough to be measured. Turns out, she did great! LEVEL BLUE

For the first time, they then sat Bee down in a chair and proceeded to strap on a blood pressure cuff. WHAT?! You people feel no need to warn parents about this shit. No way my daughter is going to buy in to your “it’s going to give your arm a hug” bullshit. LEVEL ORANGE BORDERING ON RED

Once again, shockingly, Bee was great. Turns out that she was more captivated with the cuff’s green color than what it was doing to her arm. Next goal: to find a dentist office that is entirely decorated in green.

Lastly, again for the first time, the nurse wanted to check her eye sight. She would need my help holding up that black wand-like thingy in front of Bee’s eyes and even suggested an “eye patch” (which was basically just a big bandaid) to stick on to her eye if that was easier? “Are you a fucking crack smoker?” I almost asked her. Me holding a wand thingy = LEVEL ORANGE. You putting a giant bandaid on her eyes = LEVEL RED BORDERING ON MOTHER FUCKING HOLD ON TO A PIECE OF FURNITURE ‘CAUSE THIS SHIT IS GONNA BLOW TEMPER TANTRUM

The nurse then proceeded to tell us that she would point to a line of the chart, which consisted of Vs, Hs, Os and Ts, and would give Bee this gigantic card that had V, H, O and T on it so she could point to the letters she could see.

I don’t know who was shocked more: the nurse when I told her that Bee knows her letters and doesn’t need a stupid card – she’ll just say the letter she sees, or me that it’s customary for THREE YEARS OLDS to not recognize four simple letters?

Even on our before-our-appointment questionnaire, one of the questions was “Does your child recognize at least one color?” Seriously?! ONE?! That’s all she needs to be doing to be on track?!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to death that questions like “Can your child jump with two feet?” aren’t on the paperwork anymore because, well, she SHOULD’VE been able to do that like a year ago. But what my daughter lacks in physical coordination (of any kind), she apparently makes up for in intelligence. I hope. We’re crossing athletic scholarships off the to-do list and adding geek-tastic activities like chess club and debate!

And as far as the question “Potty Training: Does your child stay dry throughout the day and only wet sometimes at night?” I almost crossed out the YES or NO options and wrote in “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Song title: Exam Room by Hermano

Something horrible is happening today.

Really, really horrible.

My iddly biddly squishee bebeh is turning ((gasps with horror)) THREE YEARS OLD!!

Sweet Jesus, I’m old.

Seriously, when did I give her permission to go from a squishy little infant to a full-grown toddler?! I don’t remember signing that memo, dammit!

In celebration of her birthday, I thought I would write down my three favorite things about my little Bee (and it goes without saying that choosing just three is going to be difficult!)

#1: You make us so proud!
Whether it is strangers stopping us to tell you how beautiful you are or your ridiculous intelligence for your age, Daddy and I couldn’t be prouder of our little girl! Every day you surprise us with how smart you are. You even make Mommy feel dumb sometimes. But in a good way! I can’t wait until you start school in the Fall, mostly because you are so very excited to learn (you already have your “purse” packed with your necessities, which apparently include a small coloring book and some plastic nuts and bolts. Don’t ask; I have NO idea what you think you’ll need them for!).

#2: You are absolutely hilarious.
I always knew you were funny, but the other day, when you and I were playing “cards” and you turned to me and said, “I win! IN YOUR FACE!!” I knew you had The Gift! It’s a daily struggle for me to discipline you without cracking up laughing at the awesome and hilarious things you say.

Just this last week at Grandma’s house, your Daddy taught you to substitute the word “Fun” for “Guns” in the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Song (”Come inside, there are GUNS inside” is what he sang). You sang it over and over again to get laughs and when Mommy told you that it wasn’t appropriate, your response was, “But Mommy, it makes people laugh!”

How can I argue with that? You definitely are my daughter!!

#3: How much love you have for others.
Sometimes I worry that I smother you too much with kisses and my incessant “I love yooooooou”s, but it must be rubbing off because whenever we cuddle together, you always snuggle your face in to mine and say “Mommy, I love you.” When you express your love unprovoked, my heart does cartwheels!

I’ve never seen a kid love her friends and family like you do. I don’t think you could possibly love your BFF more; it’s kind of ridiculous how often you give her hugs and kisses and snuggle up to her! And she loves you right back! All of your family loves you to the moon and your favorite activity is playing with your grandparents, Hooey, Duder and your cousins. But who can’t blame you? They are full of The Awesome!

I am in complete denial that you are turning three today; I want to ignore your growth so that you’ll always be my little snuggle bug. But no matter how old you are, you will always be my Baby Bee, my little girl. You and your soon-to-be little brother have my heart forever, no matter how old (and sometimes belligerent) you get!

Song title: These Three Things by Type O Negative

As I get ready to find out next week if my placenta has stopped trying to exit my vagina early, I’m reminded that I told my friends jokingly at the beginning of this pregnancy that “this labor and delivery could only be worse than Bee’s if I’m forced to have an emergency Cesarean.”

Now I’m realizing that the joke might be on me if this placenta thing doesn’t work itself out.

And I’m so not laughing.

But I was also reminded that I’ve never shared the super awesome story that I have entitled: “Bee’s Forceful Removal from my Vagina.”

All the fun began with a scheduled induction because Bee was like five minutes late and I wanted her the fuck out of my crotch. You know, in a loving way.

So we got a call on our scheduled induction day that if we were ready to push this widdle bebe out, they had a place for us! We grabbed our bags, full of birth plans and iPod playlists of annoying soothing classical music, and headed to the hospital. Of course, all of that shit stayed right in the bag and was never used, but we’ll get to that later (side note: birth plans are a waste of time. The end.).

We (and by “we”, I mean ME) got all hooked up to the monitors, put on the beautiful hospital gown and got ready for the Pitocin, otherwise known as the Drug of Please Just Kill Me Now. They started me on the Pitocin by noon and soon all the players were in the room, waiting for shit to happen.

Oh, side note: By “players”, I mean that, in my family, labor and delivery is not a solo event. I know some of you are all “I didn’t even want my HUSBAND in the room!” Yeah, um, I had Mr. Bee, Sissy, my mom, my dad (yes, my dad got to come too!), and my niece and nephew. This time around, I even invited my mother-in-law to come in, but she quickly said that she’d much rather babysit Bee as she has no desire to see my nether-regions push out a kid. “Some things are better left unseen…” were her exact words!

Despite the drugs, for the next four hours, we were all bored senseless. Thank GOD for People’s Court is all I have to say. I remember apologizing profusely to everyone for being all boring and non-eventful (little did I know that the action was coming quickly).

They must have cranked the Drug of Please Kill Me Now up a ton, because suddenly I started feeling the contractions. Now, they weren’t bad at all, just uncomfortable. Totally do-able. But apparently my body is a giant pussy (ironic because that would probably make birthing a LOT easier to have a vag THAT big), and I immediately began vomiting. Like a TON.

It. Was. Awesome.

“Oh, if you get an epidural, that will TOTALLY make the projectile vomiting go away!” the nurses quickly informed me.

Now I’m not a dumbass. I am/was fully open to all possible drugs during labor including, but not limited to, epidurals, Demerol, Stadol, Everclear, Crystal Meth… But at this point, I was kind of hoping to get a few contractions under my belt so that I didn’t feel like a total wimp in the labor and delivery department. Un/fortunately, the thought of not vomiting trumped not wanting to be a wimp so I was all about drugs to help the situation.

The awesome part? The epidural didn’t help.

So guess who vomited during her entire labor?

Yeah, it was super awesomesauce. If I wasn’t boring enough before, for the next six hours I was on oxygen and completely out of it, just trying not to puke all over myself. Practically comatose.

Oh, another important piece of information is that halfway through my labor, my super awesome nurse’s shift ended. Cue nurse who didn’t give a shit about the poor chick vomiting through labor.

Seriously, I swear to Christ, this bitch didn’t check my progress for hours. Like FOUR hours. By the time she finally did check me, I was completely dilated, effaced, ready to get the fuck on with it. AND Bee was starting to go in to distress because she had probably been ready to get the hell out of my womb for hours.

Once my doctor arrived, it was go time. In fact, it was “Oh, shit.” go time. My doc grabbed a gigantic suction cup with handles (the kind I’m pretty sure that people use to scale the sides of skyscrapers), and stuck that fucker right on to Bee’s head in my womb. Then, after grabbing a stool for leverage since she is/was a pipsqueak of a thing, the doctor then did the “eye on the ball” finger thing to me…

Then she proceeded to forcefully rip Bee out of my vagina. I’m pretty sure I only pushed/held on as she was ripped out of me for about 15 minutes or so.

I don’t think it helped that Bee was sunny-side up AND had her cord wrapped around her neck twice. The girl is high-maintenance, yo.

Once she was out, they slapped her around, cleaned off the gunk, and she began her reign as World’s Most Beautiful Little Girl.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that apparently the floor was coated in my vagina blood (trademark!). So while I was cooing and petting my new widdle bebe, my family was freaking the fuck out that I was bleeding all over the place like a scene from a Saw movie.

After forty five minutes of stitches…

Did you catch that last bit?

FORTY FIVE MINUTES OF STITCHES.

Talk about Frankenstein Vagina. Shoot.

Finally, sweet baby Jesus in a manger, FINALLY, around one o’clock in the morning, they forced my exhausted ass in to a wheelchair to switch rooms. It’s then that I felt my first failure as a mother because at that moment, when they handed me Bee all swaddled up in a blanket to carry to my new room, I could have given a shit if they had put her in the fucking laundry hamper to get her to our new room. I JUST NEEDED TO SLEEP!

Honest to God, I was terrified that I would pass out in exhaustion and drop her, poor thing! I’m still a little bitter that they forced me out of my room in the middle of the night. Fuckers.

Anywho, Mom and Bebe were happy and healthy, although one of us had severe jaundice from the gigantic bruise on her head and the other one’s vagina hurt like a mother.

I’ll let you figure out which.

Uh, The End.

Song title: Forced Labor by The Circle Jerks

And by “horse”, I mean “baby”.

Duh.

Exactly one week from today, The Bee Family (meaning me) will get all jellied up and have a ultrasound wand shoved unceremoniously in to my abdomen to determine if the baby is retarded is a Cletus or a Peaches.

Oh, did I not tell you about “Peaches”?

As you may or may not know, Bee is thoroughly obsessed with dinosaurs. Like, REALLY obsessed. So needless to say, we’ve seen the movie Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs roughly eight billion times.

And that’s being conservative.

In the movie, the mammoths, Manny & Ellie, give birth to a baby mammoth named Peaches. I’m assuming because I look pretty mammothy myself, Bee has decided that our baby shall now be henceforth known as Peaches.

Let’s just say that I’m hoping, for the baby’s sake, that it is a girl because God help the little boy whose big sister calls him “Peaches.”

But at least Bee actually has a name for the baby because her parents? Not so much.

Well, I take that back. *I* have names for the baby, whether a girl or boy.

Mr. Bee, on the other hand, has refused (and I mean, refused) to discuss names until penis or no penis has been determined.

I get his reasoning, but in the last five months, I’ve come up with two very fucking cute names, if I do say so myself. Everyone I tell either loves the names or lies very convincingly. However, Mr. Bee? Again, not so much.

But here’s his reasoning against some of my favorite names:

Annie: His first thought? Little Orphan Annie. Which means that our daughter would be doomed to have a bright red afro and we’d basically be signing our own death warrants because orphan? Hello!

Oliver: His reaction? Oliver Twist. Another poor kid. Who knew Mr. Bee was so materialistic, right?

Finn: Huck Finn? Do we even need to discuss it?

So obviously with that kind of reasoning, how could I possible argue with a crazy person?

Song title: A Horse With No Name by America

And by “Georgia”, I mean “my house and took over the body of my toddler” because…

Oh. My. Goodness.

Sorry. Language, I know.

HOLY. FUCK.

Seriously, people. The last four days have been torment.

It all started on Saturday when the Mr. and I thought we’d treat Bee to a Dinosaur Day at a museum up in Seattle. It was eh. I mean, where were all the dancing and singing dinosaurs from Dinosaur Train? All I saw was a bunch of bones and leaves in rocks. Yawn.

On the way home, Bee slept for a whopping thirty minutes and refused to take another nap.

Then next day, the same thing (minus the boring skeletons) except with only a FIFTEEN minute nap in the car.

By Monday, she was so strung out that, again, she refused to nap. And THEN her and her BFF decided to jump on her toddler bed and broke it.

And fuck if I’m bending my fat, prego ass over her bed to try to fix it.

Oh, this is probably where I should mention that Mr. Bee left Sunday for a business trip across the country.

So, yeah. This week has been aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawesomesauce.

But I am very proud of my week-long streak of eating out. I fear it will be broken this evening since the Mr. is actually back home.

But, honestly, as long as the bed gets fixed and I don’t have to sleep with toddler feet kicking my face all night, I’ll be good.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I’ve realized that slacking on Baby Numero Dos shit happens before the baby is even born, so I forced myself to get a pregnant photo taken this weekend. Enjoy, my friends.

Song title: The Devil Went Down to Georgia by Charlie Daniels