What is the one thing every stay-at-home-mom with a tantrum-throwing preschooler and an almost five-month old baby needs for Christmas?

Did you guess a 1000 piece puzzle?

Yeah, neither did I.

I’ll get right on that, right after I get more than two hours consecutive sleep and get to go to the bathroom unaccompanied by a minor.

Song title: Ungrateful Lady by John Holy

I think I can honestly say that I have never associated myself with the Stepford Wife stereotype.

Pretty sure if you have read more than five lines of this shit-tastic blog, you can tell that I’m not what one would call “prim and proper” by any means.

But two years ago (woot!), we moved our family to a master planned community and now live on a tree-lined street in a gated community that some friends refer to as Wisteria Lane.

(And let’s just say that with all the fucking drama that goes on in this town, Wisteria Lane is a pretty accurate depiction…)

I used to laugh at matchy-matchy families in their Mom-mobiles.

Okay, so I still do.

But I never laughed that hard.

Enough bullshit. The matchy-matchy family is kind of what I aspire to be.

So when I saw the Hanna Andersson catalog featuring matching family outfits, I knew it was just a matter of time before I successfully turned my family in to this:

And coming to your computer screens this winter will be the first (of many, I’m sure) Bee Family Photo featuring super cute matchy-ness!

It may make you gag.

It may make you vomit.

But I’m determined to become prim and proper.

If “prim and proper” has been redefined to mean “inappropriate and shameless.”

Song title: The Stepford Lives by Stew

You know what makes you totally feel like an alcoholic?

You know, besides drinking a ton of the alky on a regular basis.

Being pregnant.

Can I get a holla, moms??

During both pregnancies, the thing I craved the worst was just a chug sip of some booze juice. With Bee, I craved red wine throughout the entire pregnancy and I don’t even LIKE red wine! This time around any liquid with an alcohol content was the Bella to my Edward.

(Twilight reference! Woot!)

So when Mr. Bee and I were out shopping for last minute baby supplies for Bug months ago and I saw these:

Giddy up, cowboy.

I knew for months that at some point I would definitely need to be testing my boob juice for the hooch. Little did I know that “some point” was a few weeks ago.

See, Arla-Shay finally turned 21 (muuuaaahahahahahahahahaha!) so Sissy and I thought we’d take advantage of the event to celebrate.

If by “celebrate”, I mean “get totally fucking wasted on moonshine.”

And wasted we did get.

Did I mention that despite having been friends for going on eleven years now (holy shit balls!), Arla and I had NEVER gone out drinking together before?

When we met, I was a wee young lass. A wee young lass that, for whatever reason, was adamant that drinking underage was not for me. Go me! By the time I was legal, we lived a college campus apart, which to our lazy asses was apparently too far to cross in order to hang out. Once we reconnected years later, one and/or both of us have been too pregnant to drink. Meow meow.

So yes, there was some drinking the other night.

Let’s just say that some people might have thrown up. Some people also might have suffered excruciating hangovers that left them feeling like they had (and I’m quoting here) “twenty headaches simultaneously.”

But not me, young Padawan.

(Star Wars reference. Double woot!)

Which was awesome, but also left me suffering from some serious survivor guilt. But yay for no puke, right? Because, girlfriend, I drank.

Well, okay. Here was my first drink…

And the sad part? After this HALF OF A COCKTAIL, I was druuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunk. As a skunk, people.

Three and a half Mai Tais later, I was pretending to be possessed by El Diablo in an elevator and drunk texting Arla’s husband about anal sex.

You know, pretty much just another Saturday night for me.

Once we got back to our hotel room, I used said breast milk testing strips to see if I had to pump and dump or if I would be able to save the Liquid Gold for my sweet little Bug. I’ll let you make the call…

THINGS TO NOTE:
1. The two bottom colors below the line are safe for baby. The two top colors (the darker colors) mean your breast milk is not safe for baby.

2. What does it mean when your breast milk turns the test the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen?

3. I was so drunk that, at the time, I thought this photo was totally in focus.

Needless to say I had to dump this batch or risk the breast pump catching on fire due to the flammable fumes.

But that night was totally worth the lost Liquid Gold.

From what I remember, anyway.

Song title: Get My Drink On by Toby Keith

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

A few weeks ago, I celebrated my *cough* thirty-first *cough* birthday with my friends and family.

You see, when my family celebrates any occasion, a lot of pride and thought goes in to the type of card you will be receiving. My mom and Sissy subscribe to the thoughtful card-giving school, complete with flowers, butterflies and meaningful prose for the recipient.

My dad and I, on the other hand, prefer cards with a bit more humor. Basically, the more fart jokes and Farside cartoons, the better.

So when I opened presents with my family, it was instantly clear who had picked out my card from my folks. It was full of beautiful and, honestly, really touching words:

I love the spirit of you…
The grace with which
You welcome each challenge,
The childlike wonder that still color
your days.

I love the originality of you…
Your willingness
To stand out from the crowd…
Your unique perspective
On what’s happening in the world
And in your life…

Etc., etc.

I won’t lie. I was getting a little emotional reading it.

I’ll blame it on the pregnancy hormones.

As I finished reading it, choking back my emotions caused by the sweet words (“I guess it‘s pretty clear…I love everything about you. And on your birthday, I‘m wishing joy and blessings to you, my beautiful daughter and friend.“), I read the inscription left by my father:

“All these sentiments are true about you ~
But I would‘ve chosen another card.
Love, Dad”

Well played, Dad. Well played.

Song title: Those Sweet Words by Norah Jones

This last weekend, Sissy, Arla-Shay and I kicked our families to the curb and high-tailed it out of town to the San Juan Islands for a little girl time.

Ooh, that sounds a little gay.

And it was. Totally.

Let’s just say that it’s a good thing I had a pregnancy pillow as a boundary between me and Arla-Shay in bed. That girl is handsy, yo.

But, anywho, back to the trip.

All three of us were counting the minutes until departure time and then we roadrunnered the shit out of town and headed north to the Anacortes Ferry (FYI to Non-Northwesterners: It is a FERRY. Not a FERRY BOAT. Fuck you Grey’s and McDreamy for saying “ferry boat” approximately 25 times per episode.).

We made it safely on the intended ferry with no help from me (the ticket cashier: “Where are you headed?” Me: the San Juans…? Uh, I mean…Dur….”). Once on Orcas, we drove towards our resort…

…and we even saw some nature…

But there was one thing we saw as we crossed the island that made our drive go from this:

to this:

“What did you see?!” you ask.

Sasquatch?

Big Foot?

Yeti?

Oh, those are all the same guy? Fuck.

Well, it wasn’t him anyway. For those of you who know me, my deepest darkest fears include three things: Heights, Clowns, and Dolls.

Luckily all the Mountain Climbing Clowns on the island were busy that day, but we did end up driving by this monstrosity:

I’m not fucking with you. We were simply minding our own business, maybe screeching the lyrics to Ice Ice Baby or Footloose at the top of our lungs (maybe), when we drove by this crazy doll sacrifice boulder and screamed our bloody heads off.

Seriously, people of Orcas Island, What the FUCK!?! Later in the trip, we even came across this scary ass brain-eating zombie scarecrow thing just hanging out in some kid’s swing set outside of a craft studio. We exited this studio and I began to say, “Oh, I didn’t realize that the studio owner was out working on the kid’s swing set next to the car…AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!! RUN! RUN! RUN!”

To say that we ran our asses off to the car and made dust out of that place is the understatement of the year.

So while we had a totally awesome time this weekend, we are all left wondering what the FUCK the hippie, doll-sacrificing, zombie-scarecrow-worshiping, mute people of Orcas Island are up to when the main-lander tourists aren’t around. I’m convinced we would have seen a Smoke Monster if we would’ve hung around long enough…

Song title: Big Island Ladies by Ryan

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

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

Last week, Sissy and I took the families to Seaside, Oregon for a quaint little beach house vacation.

And by “quaint” I mean that our beach house was 3700 square feet.

Sah-weet!!

Seriously, you would’ve died. The bathrooms alone were enough to make me wet myself a little. You could have literally fit about 10 people in the master bath shower (I actually did measure it out while showering one morning. Don’t ask.), which was outfitted with two shower heads, one hand-held shower thingy and four body spray nozzles.

We spent the week lounging around and visiting the beach. I think the kids had a little bit of fun.

The entire week was a blast, which shouldn’t be so surprising except for one little thing: Sissy and I can handle a maximum of two days living together before we have a full on relationship breakdown and can hardly handle being in the same room together.

So you can imagine our shock and awe when the vacation was all but over and we hadn’t bickered at all!

We were just as shocked as you are.

Bee had many huge breakthroughs of her own last week. If you know Bee personally, you’d know that Bee hates getting dirty. We once took her to a local beach and she refused to venture out off of the towel because (gasp!) sand! Dirt! Oh my!

So imagine our surprise when this happened:

And this:

And even this:

She even ATE sand, people!! ATE IT!

That beach has magical powers, y’all. (at least I hope it had magical powers and not more butt worms)

Song title: Break on Through by The Doors

Who has the most awesome father in the whole wide world?

I do!

Why?

Because he found these to give as a gift to Baby Bee.

That’s right. Candy cigarettes. For his granddaughter.

I’m still laughing my ass off about it!

And I’m SO taking these to Vegas with me…