So after pushing for two ungodly hours…

Side note: Thanks so much, Doc, for letting me push that long even though I kept telling you that I didn’t think things were progressing (and I imagine that you could definitely tell that things weren’t progressing, but didn’t respond to my comments). Oh yeah, and super thanks for following up my frustrated pleas that I just wanted the asshole baby out of me with: “Well, it’s all up to you.”

Really, lady? I think everyone in the room, included a pee- and poo-covered YOU, can attest to the fact that I literally was pushing my guts out. How I managed to not utter a big “Fuck you, you stupid mother fucker” at that moment is beyond me. Who knew I could maintain somewhat of a filter in such a time of stress?

So the doctor had just told me that we could try yanking Bug out of my vagina, but if that didn’t work, we’d have to do a C-section.

Awesome.

After a very light tug, the doctor decided that there was no way that the baby was going to come out my babyhole as intended.

People have asked me if this is when I totally freaked out. Surprisingly, no. Like I said before, I just wanted the dude out of my goddamn uterus. I’m pretty sure that if the doctor had suggested letting a pack of vampires gnaw the baby out of me, I would’ve ushered those sparkly douche bags in to the birthing suite with a smile.

I gave a quick goodbye to my family (who I guess were freaking out way more than I was) and was wheeled to the operating room. Mr. Bee was taken aside to get dressed in some ridiculous Hazmat suit. I’m guessing it was just a precaution in case Bug turned out to be radioactive?

I also got to wear a hawt shower cap, which was pretty considerate figuring that I had taken the time to flat iron my hair before we left for the hospital. Who knows what kinds of junk would be flying around when they cut in to me?

As Mr. Bee donned his hard hat and eye protection, I was wheeled in to the OR and thrown on to the table ER style. Doctors and nurses started prepping for surgery by counting all the instruments (which I kindly reminded them to please not leave in my abdomen unless it would somehow ensure me a free tummy tuck later) and the anesthesiologist settled down at my head to get me nice and numb.

See, friends, all this time, I’ve still been having contractions. I’ve just been completely without my support system to deal with them. So while I’m being laid out on the table with the big blue sheet up so I can’t see the God-awful things that they are about to do to me, I’m contorting about trying to get through contractions without hitting someone.

After 30 minutes (THIRTY MINUTES) of suffering through contractions and having to declare “Yep! STILL FEELING THEM!!!!”, the anesthesiologist finally got me numb enough for doctors to slice me open. Oh, and during that 30 minutes, I also got “prepped”. And by prepped, I mean that some poor nurse who totally doesn’t earn enough had to shave part of my…region.

This is where I sincerely apologized for the 1970’s porn-esque bush I had been maintaining (or not, as the case may be). She assured me that she had seen worse in her day and I felt obligated to explain my “I can’t see it therefore it doesn’t exist to me” pubic maintenance policy.

Honestly, I can’t believe that I’m allowed out in public most days.

At this point, I am laid out Jesus-on-the-cross style, with the big curtain up, and my right arm hooked up to a blood pressure cuff. Shockingly, I was tied down completely because, girlfriend, I was fucking seizing around from either shock or the fact that apparently the operating rooms were all occupied and they had chosen to open me up in the cafeteria’s freezer.

Seriously, I half-expected to see a piles of Drumsticks and ice cream sandwiches on the tables that surrounded me. Maybe the nurses had been counting plastic cutlery instead of operating implements? I swear to God if I end up getting sick because someone left a spork in me…it will be the most awesome thing EVER! I mean, how many people get to say that?

To recap, I’m so cold that I’m having shivers so severe that my entire body is shaking AND I’m still suffering through contractions AND THEN I notice my right hand. Remember, my right arm is hooked up to the blood pressure cuff? Well, apparently I was suffering some weird calcium deficiency that would cause my right hand to contort up every time the cuff filled with air.

That’s right, folks. Every few minutes I got Palsy Hand.

Also referred to as The Claw.

So, yeah, I was a fucking mess. And the baby wasn’t even out yet!

Since this post is ridiculously long, stay tuned for Part Four: Why I’d Rather Shoot A Baby Out My Vag Hole Than Have It Cut Out of Me. Shit, that’s a long subtitle…

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

When we left Part One of Bug’s Birth Saga, the nurse was just heading out to fill an order for Pitocin to get things a-moving. The peanut gallery (aka: my mom, dad, sister and best friend) had all arrived at that point and we all waited impatiently to get transferred in to a birthing suite.

I was just chilling out, dealing with mild contractions, and trying not to punch Mr. Bee in his face while he sarcastically encouraged and supported me.

See, when Bee was born, I think Mr. Bee was in a little bit of shock. And I say this with the utmost respect and admiration for my husband, but you seriously could have replaced him with a cardboard cut-out of himself. In fact, I’m pretty sure he hardly uttered two words during the whole experience.

So this time around, I encouraged him to be a little more vocal, with the caveat (of course) that I could tell him to shut the fuck up whenever I choose to. I just didn’t think that time would come before we had even moved in to a birthing suite!

Before we could even get to our suite (or even get hooked up to that lovely Pitocin), my body decided to kick things in to high gear. Suddenly the question of whether or not these were “real” contractions went out the window. Mostly because they fucking huuuuuuuuurt.

Once we got to our birthing suite, contractions had really ramped up and thank God for Sissy, my gold medal birthing coach! It wasn’t too long before the contractions got too painful for me – I ain’t no hero, people – and I asked politely for an epidural (read: I’m pretty sure I screamed at the nurse for drugs of any kind. I mean, come on. I was in Renton, for Christ’s sake. Crack or Meth should have been readily available…).

Now, when I imagine asking for an epidural while in labor, this is what I think the response should be: “Of course, ma lady. Regular or super-sized? We will get you a fuck-ton of pain meds post haste.”

What did I get instead?

“Oh, so the anesthesiologist is in a procedure right now and then he has a C-section and then we’re up. So we’re third on the list.”

What. The. Fuck.

This is where I cried for the second time during my labor (the first was when the contractions started getting really bad and we were still in a tiny triage room). The only way to describe how I felt was if you can imagine the nurse reaching in to my body, grabbing hold of my soul, wrenching it out through my eye sockets and smashing it to smithereens while simultaneously peeing on it.

Needless to say, I was crushed. Also, I thought I was going to die. So that was really fun.

Luckily for me and my sanity, the drug doctor was able to sneak me in between procedures and I soon had a very mild epidural, which really? When I ask for an epidural, I want to be able to shove a fork in to my leg and not even blink an eye. This epidural? Barely took the edge off of the contractions. Grrr.

I probably could have asked for more drugs, but immediately after giving me the epidural, the nurse checked my cervix and guess who was totally dilated and effaced?

Are you fucking shitting me? I just went through that whole painful labor without an epidural but now I can’t tell people proudly that I did it au natural? Jesus Christ.

Even though the doctor, upon checking me, said I was a “sloppy eight”, she let me start pushing anyway because, well, I wanted to. So for the next two hours, I pushed my heart out.

Well, not literally my heart. My pee, poo and god knows what else? Yes.

Did you know that you can pee all over your doctor while in labor? Well, I can apparently. Jealous?

I even asked Sissy at one point if I had pooped (not that I really cared. I poo’d all over the place with Bee; for some reason I just wanted to know if all my bodily fluids were shooting across the room at that point!). Her response was “No, I don’t think so…” Later I found out that Arla-Shay approached Sissy and was all, “Uh, why did you lie about the pooping? She poo’d EVERYWHERE!” Sissy assures me that she hadn’t witnessed said poop at that point but Arla-Shay guarantees that the room looked like a poo-throwing monkey had a fiesta in it. Nice.

So, approximately two hours later, Bug was finally within an inch or two of the world when the doctor noticed that he was sideways.

That’s right, folks.

Not face down. Not sunny-side up.

Fucking SIDEWAYS.

Oh, and guess what else? Every contraction was also paired with Bug kicking the shit out of me. My family could actually see him kicking against my stomach from the outside.

Most painful thing I’ve ever felt.

And I don’t think it will come to a surprise you, but for some reason the doctor was surprised at the nicknames I had for Bug during labor. I think her favorites were “Jerk” and “Asshole”.

So after two hours of literally gut-wrenching pushing and the only thing born was Bug’s hair, the doctor tried reaching in and turning the baby the right way.

Um, ouch.

THEN, she tried the suction cup with a handle method to see if the kid would budge.

Double ouch.

When turning and pulling didn’t work, the doctor educated me on irony. That is, I had been going around for ages telling people that the only way that Bug’s labor and delivery could be worse than Bee’s was if I was forced to have an emergency C-section.

Well, guess what?

Stay tuned for Part Three of the Bug Birth Saga which includes freezing to death, being cut open while making porno jokes, and my weird palsy hand.

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

After a week and a half, after at least four or five days of truly trying to find the time to sit down with the laptop, and with baby planted firmly on boob with netbook balanced precariously on my breastfeeding pillow, here, my loves, is Bug’s Birth Story.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Nah, actually it was a clear and beautiful Thursday that began as any other, full of the Play Date. I had seen all the same women the week before and was greeted kindly with “Why the hell are you here?” and “Aren’t you supposed to be giving birth or something?!”.

After explaining that apparently a week’s worth of contractions does not equal a baby shooting out from my vag, everyone decided that as much as they like me, I was forbidden to see any of my friends any time soon as I should be giving birth.

Little did they know…

Later that afternoon, while Bee was taking a nap, I was resting on the couch in between peeing every five minutes. During one trip to the bathroom, I noticed, well, discharge.

This is probably a good time to mention that this birth story is chock full of bodily fluids and gory ass (literally) details. Basically, if vaginal discharge scares you, this blog story is probably not one for you!

Anywho, I initially didn’t think much of it but each subsequent bathroom visit, as I reached the standing position: goosh. For the ladies who are curious, it kind of just felt like “that time of the month”. It wasn’t the stereotypical Niagra/Vagina Falls that you see on television. And did you know that less than 15% of women actually have their water break on it’s own? Jealous?!

So once I realized that my vag was leaking more than normal, I called Mr. Bee to share the exciting news and tell him to get his ass home post haste.

Ring.

Ring.

Mr. Bee: Is it “go time” or is this just another pointless phone call?

That’s a QUOTE, people.

Me: Well, my water just broke so I’m gonna go with “go time”…

Mr. Bee: Oh shit! Really?! I was just joking!

Ha. Ha.

After getting all the important folks on the phone and Grandma over to watch Bee, Mr. Bee and I headed to the hospital. During the drive up, I was all “omg, omg, omg, omg, omg, I’m going to be having a baby tonight! omg, omg, omg,” while the Mr. was all “Yeah, that’s kind of how this works.”

Thanks, Mr. Wizard, for that breaking science development.

Upon arriving at the Birth Center triage, we began what they refer to as the first state of labor and delivery: The Waiting.

Well, before the waiting, the nurse wanted to make sure that my water had really broken. Makes sense, right?

So she asked for my soaked pantyliner that I had put on so I wouldn’t leak all over the car.

I’ll be honest, it’s not the first time that some stranger has asked for my used feminine products, but usually they buy me a drink or two first…

As she performed her tests, the nurse asked Mr. Bee and I how long it had been since our last sexual escapade – thinking that maybe the goop in my pants wasn’t amniotic fluid but Mr. Bee’s baby batter.

((Cue hysterical laughter))

I’m not sure of my exact words, but I think I assured her that unless my vagina was a sperm bear trap that could hold on to that junk for longer than 4 months, we didn’t need to worry that I was just oozing man juice.

After her sniff test or whatever the hell she was doing with my dirty underwear, she confirmed that indeed, my sac had ruptured and I was good to go to Labor & Delivery. You know, as soon as a nurse could get away and get me a room. In the meantime they would put in an order for Pitocin to start my contractions being productive (since my water had broken, I would be much more prone to getting an infection if they didn’t nudge things along).

Little did they know, I wouldn’t need any Pitocin…

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

After a week and a half of sleep deprivation, I’ve realized a few things: there is absolutely no way that I will willingly give birth to another child, I absolutely need a personal assistant/chef/pharmacist, and you, my tens of readers, probably would like a grand introduction to the newest member of the Bee Family! So without further ado and henceforth and whatnot, it is my pleasure to present to you for the first time…

Bug
(the artist formerly known as Cletus)

Born August 6th at 1:38 in the butt crack of night/morning
Weighing in at a whopping 8 pounds, 11 ounces and measuring 19 inches

He is already much loved by all, with the minor exceptions of my vagina, my c-section scar and my bloody nipples.

And I swear on the sweet baby Jesus that Bug’s birth story is in the works! Part One should be up soon! It would’ve been up sooner if Bug would just learn some independence already. He is so needy…

Song title: So May I Introduce to You by Dilated Peoples

For those of you that haven’t followed the daily ups and downs of my uterus via Facebook, first of all, why the hell not?! Become a Fan of Mom to Bee on Facebook and you’ll get all the awesome updates including but not limited to these gems:

If you have been missing out on these web gems, here’s a quick update on my uterine status. Last Wednesday, at my doctor’s office (because it’d be kind of awkward otherwise) my doctor and I got pretty intimate. Let’s just say that she pretty much shook Cletus’ hand while he was still in the womb.

For those of you who actually care, my doc “stripped my membranes” which **disgusting warning** consists of her jabbing her fingers up my hootch and separating my amniotic sac from my uterine wall around my cervix. And let me tell you, it feels just as awesome as it sounds. In fact, at one point she asks, “Are we breathing?” I’m pretty sure my response was a muffled, “Mmm hmmm”.

In my head, I was thinking “NO, I’M NOT BREATHING! BUT I WILL HOLD MY BREATH FOR AN HOUR IF IT MEANS THAT THIS BABY WILL BE COMING OUT OF MY VAGINA SOON!!”

But shockingly, I tend to be able to filter myself pretty well in front of professionals.

Most of the time.

As my doctor departed, she told me that she’d probably be seeing me within a couple days, as the finger bang she just performed should stimulate labor.

::Cue Mama Bee’s brain becoming completely obsessed with labor and delivery::

Of course, losing my mucus plug and having contractions didn’t help with any of that either. In fact, at the crack of dawn on Sunday, I was 90% sure that it was Go Time. I woke up Mr. Bee and we got all our shit together and sat down to watch television until the contractions got close enough together to leave for the hospital.

And guess what happened?

That’s right. The mother fucking contractions stopped.

Just stopped.

Wham. Bam. Thank you, uterus.

Since then, I’ve waddled walked about four miles on the treadmill and through our neighborhood, I’ve enlisted Arla-Shay to press the crap out of my pressure points, and I’ve even twisted the hell out of my boobies trying to stimulate labor. And all I get are sporadic contractions that don’t even warrant timing at this point.

So if you see me walking down the street, possibly with tears in my eyes and likely clawing at my vagina to get Cletus out, please just pass me on by. Unless you too would like a flaming bag of dog shit on your doorstep. The recipient list is getting longer and longer.

It would probably help if I owned a dog…

Song title: Labor in Vain by Vanessa Bell Armstrong

FYI: If you’d like to follow the “blow-by-blow” action that is my impending labor and delivery of Cletus the Fetus, you should “like” the Official Mom to Bee Facebook Fan page.

Updates including, but not limited to, me cussing out anyone around me and blaming Mr. Bee for “doing this to me”.

Song title: Blow Out by Vell Rob

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.

Duh.

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

Typically, when one thinks of a baby shower, you think of smelling melted candy in diapers, lots of “oooh”ing and “aaaah”ing and, well, general boredom. I mean, is anyone ever really excited to get an invitation to someone’s baby shower. Shit, I am pregnant and the idea doesn’t even sound good to me.

That is, until my crazy ass friends decided to throw me a shower in Cletus’ honor. You see, last time around, my friends had a blast planning a shower for me. While it was more traditional than not, the planning process included brainstorming of ideas such as a vaginal entrance to the party (symbolizing birth, of course) and decorating the place with penis sheep (photo coming soon! Who knew that it isn’t advisable to draw and email half penis/half sheep from work?).

So when the opportunity arose to throw me a shower for Cletus, don’t you know that my ladies jumped on the chance.

To give you an idea of the party, weeks before, when asked for a guest list, I was told that the shower may not be “all audience appropriate” (aka: you probably don’t want to invite children or your mom). Factoring in that this baby features new and fun genitalia to work with, I won’t lie: I was very excited and just a tad apprehensive.

Upon arriving to the shower, I was surprised to find actual balloons and not just blown up condoms sprinkled around the house. But my disappointment wouldn’t last long…

Apparently my friends had a lot of fun shopping for penis decorations. When the penis cookie cutter was purchased, the clerk asked my friend, “Ooooh! Are you making cookies or jello shots??” My friend replied, “Tea sandwiches for a baby shower…?”

Obviously, it wouldn’t be an important celebration if Guillermo, the inflatable penis (who has traveled to Mexico, Vegas, and wine tasting in Walla Walla with us), wasn’t a guest of honor. In his high chair, of course. Safety first, people.

And the pièce de résistance…

A homemade cake made by the one and only Sissy! Can you believe that she made that hospital gown (and don’t forget the tiny little penises) herself out of gum paste?! I still have the Barbie and baby sitting on my kitchen counter because I can’t bear to disassemble it! I have to say, my vag IS kind of awesome. Although, I have never looked that coiffed during labor.

But I think the best part is imagining the tray of iddy biddy penises hanging out in the back of her fridge, just waiting for her 13-, 6- or 2-year old to discover them before the party. Man, I would’ve loved to see her 13-year old boy confront her with a tray of gum paste cock-a-doodle doos! Classic!!

After dining on penis-shaped delectables, we continued to the game phase which included all of my friends horribly insulting me with how gigantic they think my belly is (seriously, people. I’m not a Biggest Loser contestant for Christ’s sake!!).

Later we attempted to drink 2 oz. of punch and/or vodka-laced punch out of baby bottles.

Needless to say, hilarity (and a lot of “that’s what she said”) ensued.

I think we were all surprised at the end result, which probably doesn’t say much for the ladies we thought would kill at the “sucking”.

Despite the lock-jaw and penis-cake induced sugar coma, this shower was definitely full of the Golden. But, you know, in the non-pee on you kind of way.

Song title: Golden Shower by Space Barber

Okay, first of all, yes, I totally get the irony of posting this after last Monday’s “Aren’t Babies and Pregnancy Awesome” post. But I would like to state something for the record…

I am SO over this pregnancy.

It’s hilarious to me that it’s like a switch being flipped. A really fucking evil switch in the shape of a hand flipping you off.

One day I’m all glowing and having a great ol’ time gestating and then next day I’m this close to giving myself a self-Cesarean using a dirty spork and my teeth. I want this kid out. NOW.

You see, recently I’ve backtracked in to the second trimester where I’m hungry all. the. time. But of course Cletus the Fetus is pushing directly on my stomach most days and I can fit roughly a quarter of a Wheat Thin in my tummy before I’m totally full. As you’ve probably guessed, about 30 seconds later, I’m fucking ravenous. It’s full of the Awesome.

Also, if you have seen me in person, you’d notice that unlike my pregnancy with Bee where I had a big round belly that wrapped around my entire abdomen, Cletus prefers the sticking straight out of my body method. Honestly, I really look like I have a pregnancy pillow shoved under my shirt.

And by “pregnancy pillow” I mean one of those large bouncy balls you can get out of that big cage in Target.

Because who wouldn’t put that under your shirt and go out in public, really?

This, of course, leads to all the wondrous “You are SO big!” comments, followed up by the “When are you due? Like, yesterday?! Don’t break your water on my carpet! Har har har!”

To all those people: Fuck. Off.

My doctor says I measure normally, thankyouverymuch. (Yes, I asked. I was getting a friggin’ complex, yo.)

And to add insult to, well, insults, this crazy-shaped tummy of mine is killing my back. And my hips. And my shins when I’m standing (which I try to do very little of now). I’ve also transitioned in to the pee-every-five-seconds stage, which isn’t helped by my insatiable thirst. I’m pretty sure that this kid is half kangaroo (with all the jumping and punching), half fish (with me drinking roughly 850 million gallons of any liquid I can get my hands on), and half asshole (again, with the punching). Is it too soon to file domestic violence charges on this kid? Seriously.

With the lack of sleep, due to the hips that feel like they are on fire and the urinary tract that feels like it’s going to burst when I stand up and gravity is working against me, I told Mr. Bee the other day that I’d much rather have a newborn at this stage! I know I’d have to stay up longer in the middle of the night, but at least those few precious hours of sleep in between would be comfortable.

Because if I have to sleep with one more pillow between my legs, arms, back, neck, etc., someone’s gonna get smothered.

Song title: I’m Over It Now by Marvin Winans

A few weeks back, my in-laws gave me a gift certificate for a maternity massage at Gene Juarez. First of all, best present ever! Secondly, I can’t believe it took me so long to make the appointment, but I finally got around to scheduling my massage for this week.

Maybe it’s just me (I’m guessing it’s just me) but scheduling a massage makes me more anxious than anything else. Among the many questions in my mind were:

Question: Do I have to shave?

Answer: The only thing worse than having to touch my State Puff Marshmallow Man body at this point would be having to touch my hairy SPMM body, so for my masseuse’s sake, I struggled to balance and reach my way down to my feet with the razor. Results totally not guaranteed.

Question: I am going to go Full Monty under my spa robe?

Answer: Due to my propensity to pee myself if I sneeze, laugh, cough or even lately, get kicked hard enough by a certain crotch parasite who will remain nameless, I initially was leaning towards keeping the lady garden locked up tight, but ended up letting the bits roam free (as they are meant to). I figured that if my masseuse pushed too hard anywhere, then it was pretty much her fault for any resulting massage bed stains.

Question: If going Full Monty, do I actually have to shave, you know, down there?

Answer: Yeah, I am SO not one of those women who are concerned (overly or not) about the status of their lady garden during pregnancy. First of all, even if I wanted to, I can hardly even reach the damned thing in order to get the pruning shears any where close.

Secondly, I have a philosophy: If I can’t see it, it ain’t there. Or more accurately, if I can’t see it, then I don’t give a shit what it looks like. I figure Mr. Bee would just be happy to see anything and I have convinced myself that my doctor has surely seen worse. Or at least I hope so…

The massage ended up being exactly what I needed this week, but I do believe it should be considered torture to force people to actually, you know, move and stuff after the massage. With all those soft and comfy pillows all propped up to make me comfy, I easily could have slept for a week afterward. And to be honest, I had to fight off sleeping during the appointment, if only to avoid the awkward reaction from the masseuse that surely would result from my newly acquired pregnancy symptom: snoring like Walter Cronkite with a deviated septum.

I’ve even woken up myself, yo.

And Bee.

And Mr. Bee.

Let’s just say that if Mr. Bee, of all people, is teasing you for snoring, you know there is a problem.

That guy sounds like a rusty chainsaw on a back-firing lawnmower trying to cut through a thousand geese dying of tuberculosis.

I’m sure I just sound like a princess sighing. Or, you know, like cute snoring like when a little puppy snores or something.

Song title: Touch My Body by Mariah Carey