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

Despite my (almost) 3 year old’s lacking gross motor skills and absolute refusal to defecate in a location other than her pants, this whole parenting thing hasn’t stumped me too often.

That is, until recently.

You might recall that I am full of the Crazy and have an almost illegal love of lists and Excel spreadsheets. What you might not realize is that no one could love Excel more than my husband.

The other day, in a fit of boredom organizational fury, Mr. Bee created an elaborate spreadsheet estimating all of our potential one-time expenses from now until, well, until we die, basically. We’re talking everything from swim lessons and window treatments to European vacations.

Most of the items are within some sort of reason. But imagine my surprise when I reached the 16th birthdays of the kids and Mr. Bee had allocated…wait for it…$25,000 for EACH of the kid’s first cars.

What the what?!

I immediately explained that I don’t care if it means that Bee will have to push her P.O.S. car along with her feet like the Flintstones, we will not be spending more than like $5-7k for the kids’ first cars. I mean, obviously, right?

But the conversations raised some worries about parenting our children in the coming years. We’re proud of our new home and that we’ll be able to raise our children with pretty much whatever they need (again, within reason).

But how in the world do you avoid raising bitchy entitled little shit heads? The last thing I want is for Bee and Cletus to take their lifestyle for granted, especially when Mr. Bee has worked his tail off his entire life to get us where we are now (without getting in to the dirty back story, Mr. Bee is pretty much the epitome of Rags to Riches.)

I’m so proud that Mr. Bee broke the cycle and on pure determination, ambition and brilliance carved out a spectacular life for himself. So, when I think about our children growing up in the nice house with nice things, I hope I can manage to instill an appreciation for the hardworking that goes in to living this life.

Is there some magic recipe for raising happy, but not annoying/spoiled kids? I’m already contemplating how I will handle buying school clothes for a tween while my first born is still wearing polar bears on her pajamas. And in the meantime, I’m struggling to not buy the entire outdoor section of Toys R Us for our backyard this summer. I’m kind of a walking contradiction (surprise!).

Maybe if we make then spend a couple years living in a Harry Potter-esque cupboard under the stairs they won’t take their Flintstone cars for granted…

Song title: Mo Money Mo Problems by The Notorious B.I.G.

This past weekend, I got some much-needed girlfriend time out at a local shopping center. After the obligatory oohing and aahing at the window displays, I convinced my possie into a way overpriced maternity boutique with me.

Here, I learned a few things:

1. One should never pay $50 for a maternity tank top, even if it says something cute and baby related on it.

2. Hooter Hiders is still one of the awesomest named companies/ products ever.

3. I seriously need to find out if this fetus is with or without a penis so I can start shopping post haste. Newborn clothes = fucking adorable.

4. Nothing makes you more ready for your impending crotch parasite then perusing overpriced baby clothes and toys. I almost felt my ovaries shooting out additional eggs when I was playing with crinkly terrycloth covered baby toys. I mean, seriously, people. Cletus was probably dodging extra ova bombs like she/he was on Normandy Beach.

5. The last thing I learned was that Mr. Bee has no appreciation for overpriced/reasonably overpriced shampoo and shower gel. I mean, how is a pregnant woman supposed to feel like facing the day without smelling like Verbena, whatever the fuck that is?

Song title: I’m Ready by Tevin Campbell

Yesterday I had my first routine baby check up appointment which meant that I got to drive 40 minutes each way so that I could be robbed of some bodily fluids and sent back out the door 20 minutes later.

In case you lovely stalkers readers are curious, Cletus was a happy little fetus with a 140 per minute heartbeat and I was happy little mommy having only gain about 7 pounds so far. Of course, I blame at least 8 of those pounds on the Panera half sandwich I ate right before the appointment.

I also learned that I am “very NOT anemic” which apparently is good and is totally ironic since Mr. Bee has a huge problem with being anemic. Once again, our powers combined would create a normal (and kick-ass Jeopardy contestant) person.

The nurse and doctor didn’t make a huge deal about it, but I’m pretty sure my high iron levels means that I am a super hero. Obviously that means that my skeleton must be encased in iron like Wolverine. Surely, they wouldn’t want to alert me to the situation in case I am prone to leaning towards the villain side of things.

Which really, with all these pregnancy hormones, is highly likely.

I am also planning on blaming my newly discovered abnormality on my compulsive laziness. No wonder I’m tired all the time. Iron is heavy, yo.

But I promise to use my powers only for good. As long as I am provide a steady supply of Little Ceasar’s Crazy Bread, that is.

This prego’s got needs.

Song title: Check up on My Baby by Eddy Clearwater

I feel like there is (at least) one necessary evil of pregnancy. I have deemed it “The Veil of Silence.”

TVOS occurs when you see a friend/acquaintance/stranger who you are pretty sure is pregnant, but in fear of placing your gigantic foot in your mouth, you refrain from any sort of congratulations or pregnancy talk.

I totally get why TVOS is necessary and, in fact, polite and considerate, but it also is really irritating when you see someone that is REALLY pregnant and you really want to share in their happiness but you have to keep your big, fat piehole shut because you might just insult them in to a shame spiral if they just have a food baby.

Take today, for example. There is a girl sitting roughly 5 feet away from me in Panera with a cute big prego belly. Of course, since I am definitely in the “Shit, that girl has let herself GO” department of pregnancy belly, I don’t expect anyone to ask me about it. But this chick is PREGNANT. Surely she wouldn’t mind if I congratulated her or asked her how far along she is in an attempt of Womb Parasite Comradery?

But no. I am as chicken as everyone else.

Generally, my rule is that unless I see your baby’s head crowning, I’m not asking how far along you are. Because it’s just my luck that I would pick the one random woman with a glandular problem, right?

UPDATED: Fuck, Random Chick even just mentioned an ultrasound!! Begin Mission To Insert Myself In To Their Conversation….NOW

UPDATE #2: Last year I was working an event with a DJ I hadn’t seen in a while. We were trying to figure out our last event together, using our Children’s birthdates as reference. He replies, “Oh, well you must have been pregnant because you were a lot bigger than you are now.” When I looked up the date later? Yeah, I had been like 4 months POST baby. Meow meow.

Song title: The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel

I have a silly, ridiculous, almost impossible theory to confess.

For some reason, after I have a vividly realistic dream, I’m totally convinced that the people I dreamed/dreamt/had dreams about also dreamed/dreamt/had the same dream about me.

Which leads to some really awkward conversations after some of the fucked up pregnancy dreams I’ve had recently.

For example, one of my first memorable pregnancy dreams of this pregnancy featured Arla-Shay and Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory on CBS.

As if that wasn’t weird enough, in my dream I was in love with Sheldon (which, puke) and Arla-Shay was like 9 months pregnant. With Sheldon’s baby. Because THEY were in love.

Yes, you read that correctly. I was dreaming of a love triangle featuring me, a prego Arla-Shay and nerdy, annoying Sheldon.

To say I was confused when I woke up is a huge understatement.

Since then, I’ve had a number of quite unusual dreams, but I think the thing that’s freaking me out the most is how many times I wake singing some goddamn Backyardigans song or realizing that my dream featured Bee’s favorite toys that are referred to as the “squishy dinosaurs”.

What the fuck, pregnancy hormones?! What. The. Fuck.

The other dream confession I have is almost more bizarre…

I am so controlling that I can’t even release myself in to the world of fantasy in my dreams.

That’s right, y’all. I’m married to Mr. Bee so, therefore, in my dreams I’m always married.

And now that I’m pregnant? You guessed it. Prego Dream Mama Bee.

Needless to say, this leads to horrifically boring dreams because I’m always making decisions that are based in reality. I can’t have a “sexy” dream because I’d be cheating on Mr. Bee. No espionage or skydiving for me; I might hurt the baby.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to accept that dreamland isn’t reality and actually have a bit of fun (don’t worry, Mr. Bee, I won’t have too much fun). Until then maybe I should just be happy with the dreams I’m having.

At least last night’s had dinosaurs.

Song title: The Impossible Dream by Jim Nabors

As any mom can tell you, pregnancy comes along with a bunch of good and bad things:

Good: a beautiful (one would hope) baby
Bad: a blown-out vagina

Good: awesome boobs
Bad: a belly that rivals Homer Simpson’s

Good: the ability to eat anything you want without judgment
Bad: the ability to smell everything in a twelve mile radius

But, you see, Interwebs, I have an additional little pro/con for my list…

The Crazed Over-Protective Husband

Sure, sure, you say, all soon-to-be-fathers freak out a little before the bouncy bundle of poop and spit-up joy arrives!

Oh no.

I’m not talking about your average husband who maybe gives you a break from the heavy lifting around the house for a few months.

I’m talking ker-azy, people.

Here’s an example:

The other night, I headed out for a typical girl’s night watching The Bachelor. The next morning, we were scheduled to have our garage door, which had recently begun to split in two upon opening and closing (kind of inconvenient), replaced. It struck me before I left for the evening that I should park across the street from our house so I (more accurately, Mr. Bee) wouldn’t have to shuffle my car around in the morning before the garage dudes showed up.

When I suggested my brilliant plan to Mr. Bee, he adamantly said, “Oh no no no. Just park in the garage or the driveway. I’ll move it in the morning.”

I, being the logical (and stubborn) one, responded with, “But that doesn’t make any sense. I’ll just park it on the street. Duh.”

And this is when Mr. Bee said:

…wait for it…

“I don’t want you walking across the street.”

I’ll let that sink in for a minute…

…

And let me specify, we don’t live on a freeway, drag racing course or in a monster truck rally. In fact, we live in a very quiet, gated community. So the chances of even seeing a car (driving probably below the speed limit) at 10 o’clock at night is pretty low to begin with.

But to satisfy my crazy husband, I parked in the driveway.

Because I know a good thing when I see it.

See, Mr. Bee might constantly remind me to use the handrail up and down the stairs and get irritated when I don’t give him the opportunity to fetch a blanket for me (heavens! I’ll actually fetch it myself!! What was I THINKING?!?), but the awesomeness of this situation is…I haven’t had to do jack shit for 3+ months.

And this will continue until I pop this little vagina parasite out my babyhole!

We’re talking no cleaning (TOXIC FUMES!!), no grocery shopping (THE BAGS ARE TOO HEAVY!!), and, obviously, nothing as strenuous as walking across the street.

So while I do contend that Mr. Bee could probably use one (or five) of my Lexapro, I’ll keep my complaining in check.

Except for maybe when he yells at me to use the handrail. I’m not fucking retarded, after all.

Song title: Husband and Father by Bryan MacLean

We will find out if our little nugget Cletus is a hamburger or a hotdog (girl or a boy) on March 23rd. It seems like lately whenever someone realizes that I’m pregnant and not just letting myself go (to be fair, I am letting myself go as well), the first question out of their mouth is…

“Do you want a boy or a girl?”

First of all, that’s a horrible question because no matter how you answer it, you feel bad that your not-so-soon-to-be-baby will feel like shit if he/she ever found out that they have the “wrong” genitalia. Unless, of course, you answer with the super fucking lame, “We just want it to be healthy.”

Really?! Because there are so many of us parents out there that don’t give a shit if our kid is totally a retarded spider monkey potato baby just as long as she has a vagina?! Jesus Christ.

Anywho, like I was saying, I think the question is really unfair. Mostly because I am totally bias.

My answer to the question every time? A girl.

But it’s not my fault, really. It’s Sissy’s fault.

We were so cute. What happened?

You see, I have one older sister, Sissy. During our youth, we were the typical siblings: I completely annoy the shit out of my sis to which she would respond with an Indian burn on my arm. To which I would go crying to my mom like the youngest is supposed to do. Don’t blame me, blame society.

But once Sissy went away to college, I think it only took roughly 24 hours for us to become best of friends. It was then that we learned that as long as we don’t have to live with each other for longer than a week or so, we are super BFFs.

Sissy and I have never understood how siblings could be anything but the best of friends. We see each other as often as we can living an hour away from each other and having 4.5 kids between us. We call each other roughly 112 times a day, 8 days a week, if only to discuss getting boob jobs and giggling over scenes from the Hangover.

But there is a glorious beauty that comes with a BFF Sissy. For one, there are so many things that we can share that few others could. (Side note: Random Friend does not represent any one of my particular friends so don’t get pissed, k?)

While Shopping with Sissy
Me: How do these jeans look? Super fly, right?
Sissy: Um, no. Definitely not. They kind of give you camel toe but in your butt.
Me: ((sigh)) You’re right…

While Shopping with a Friend
Me: How do these jeans look? Super fly, right?
Random Friend: Nah, I don’t think those are working for you.
Me: What do you know, slut? ((stomps away))

Chatting with Sissy about Family
Sissy: Can you believe what random family member did? What a butt monkey?
Me: Right?! Don’t even get me started on that reh-tard!!

Chatting with Friend about Family
Friend: I can’t believe what your random family member did! What a butt monkey!
Me: Shut up, bitch. That’s MY retarded family member you’re talking about!! ((throws punch))

Planning a Night Out with Sissy
Me: First we should eat and then drink and then drink some more and have a slumber party and be drunk with the drinking and it will be awesome!!
Sissy: I’m pre-funking already!

Planning a Night Out with Random Friend
Me: First we should eat and then drink and then drink some more and have a slumber party and be drunk with the drinking and it will be awesome!!
Friend: Sorry, I have to wash my cousin’s aunt’s sister’s friend’s neighbor’s poodle’s hair that night.
Me: Whore.

You know, maybe I’d have more friends if I stopped calling them whore all the time…

So anyway, you can see that I’m terribly biased when it comes to preferring a sibling gender for Bee. I know that if Cletus is a boy, he and Bee will be as thick as thieves (mainly because I will force them to be friends even if I have to use Sissy’s Gitmo Indian burn technique), but somehow I don’t think they’ll be calling eachother five times a day to discuss vaginaplasty when they’re older.

But, hey, I could be wrong.

Song title: My Best Friend by Tim McGraw

Don’t forget to enter my latest giveaway for a pair of delicious hand-knitted mittens for your favorite little toddler!! (click here to enter the contest!)

Also, I just got word from Arla-Shay that she’ll knit a pair of mittens for a boy if you’d prefer!!

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So last week I had my first Cletus the Fetus doctor appointment. Finally, this pregnancy is starting to feel more “real”.

You know, more real than feeling like I’m going to vomit every 5 minutes.

I realized about a week ago that due to the twelve months of constant humping and constant disappointment (not necessary due to all the humping) to get this baby in my ute, that I’m a lot more cautious. I mean, I know this baby is in there and most likely isn’t going anywhere, I just haven’t wanted to get myself too excited after so long, just to have something tragic happen after all that wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’…

But I digress…

Last week, well, something great happened! We got to see our little Cletus for the first time!!

Isn’t he/she just darling? It’s okay, you can say it…it IS the cutest little fetus you’ve ever seen, right?

And while just being in an OB/GYN’s office definitely puts you in the “woohoo! I’m pregnant!” frame of mind, it also reminded me of what lays ahead.

Like the elaborate prepping-for-surgery-esque work you have to do to your vagina before just peeing in a cup.

And having to walk around the office and get home with a vagina full of KY Jelly after a vaginal ultrasound (which, trust me, isn’t as fun as it sounds) or a lucky visit with a “full exam”.

And the potentially embarrassing Biggest Loser weigh-in each visit. Every time I go in, I still ask if they want me to take off my shoes, coat, purse, clothes, underwear…anything to make that number smaller, right? (Thank god it’s still early and I’ve only gain 4 pounds. That will change soon, my friends. Soon.)

Side note: I totally thought I was starting to “show” until I sat amidst a bunch of women who were at least 8 months pregnant. Then I just felt like I was in an episode of “One of these things is not like the other…”

I’m starting to get really excited about Cletus (and even more excited for the little dude to get the fuck off my bladder sometime soon), but what other things did I forget with my Momnesia (you know, that helpful little thing that makes you forget all the shitty aspects of pregnancy so that you are dumb enough to try it again)?

Song title: Doctor Time by Rick Trevino

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