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

It seems that this is the week for confessions.

So here it is: I. Am. Lazy.

Like pathologically lazy.

Here I am, at 3 o’clock in the afternoon on a brilliantly sunny day, with Bee asleep for at least another hour or so, and I can’t even get myself to concentrate fully on writing a comprehensible blog post.

Should I be cleaning? Doing laundry? Cleaning off my rat’s nest of a nightstand (really, Mr. Bee is starting to worry that rats are actually living on the top of my nightstand)?

Fuck, I’m too lazy to even create a list of the things that I’m too lazy to do!

I’ve attempted to do that set-the-timer-for-15-minutes-each-day-to-clean method. I’ve thought about making a list of a few things every day to accomplish (yes, the key phrase there is “thought about”).

And yet, there are still piles of laundry on the bedroom floor. Still a bathroom vanity that looks like a makeup-filled Vesuvius exploded and took half the bathroom with it. Still a closet filled with clothes that won’t fit me for another decade year.

This is where I need your help. I’m positive that, you, my faithful reader, keep a spotlessly clean Martha Stewart-esque home, complete with fresh flowers daily.

So how the fuck do you do it?

Maybe I should start with not napping for two hours every day during Bee’s naps. Girlfriend’s gotta start somewhere, right?

Song title: It’s My Lazy Day by Smiley Burnette

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 you would probably presume, watching approximately 712 primetime shows per week creates a need for a pretty structured television routine.

Take last night, for example.

Since it was Biggest Loser Night, special preparations had to be made.

Sure, some of you would make a special healthy snack of tofu or celery or whatever the hell you healthy people eat. Or maybe you squeeze yourself in to some spandex and workout while watching all the fatties inspirational contestants sweat to the oldies.

Mr. Bee and I, on the other hand, had to make a special run to the grocery store to prepare…

But don’t get me wrong. Each of these items had a very specific purpose:

1. Peanut Butter Cups.
Okay, these are just for the yummy factor.

2. Lifesavers.
If I’m gonna watch a bunch of 300+ pounders working out until they vomit, Lord knows I need something to suck on so that *I* don’t puke my guts out.

3. Sunny Delight.
What the hell I am supposed to wash down those peanut butter cups with?!

4. Pantyliners.
Have YOU tried sneezing without peeing yourself lately? That’s what I thought.

5. Huggies.
In case the pantyliners aren’t enough…

6. Chocolate & Vanilla Ice Cream with Cool Whip.
This is all Mr. Bee’s fault. He will chomp through these two boxes of ice cream in like two days. Seriously, if he was actually able to gain weight, he’d probably be a contender for Biggest Loser’s next season.

7. Ice cream sandwiches.
Well, I can hardly let Mr. Bee eat all that ice cream alone, right? What kind of wife would I be?! And let it be known that you can’t see the “only 100 calories” badge on the box. So what if I ate 12 of them. I’m eating for two now!

Song title: Bad Loser by The Sutherland Brothers

And by “funk”, I mean “funkiness”. Can I get a what what?! Okay, I’ll stop now…

Since I am bone dry of any sort of creativity at all, I’ve decided to take some time today to tell you all sorts of things that you’ve never needed and/or wanted to know about me.

1. I was, and always will be, a cheerleader.
I began cheering when I was like eight years old and continued through high school. In fact, I was CAPTAIN of the cheer squad my senior year of high school. (Okay, co-captain, but captain just sound so much more prestigious…)

Don’t get me wrong, though. I was not popular. No boys ever asked me out and I didn’t even have a date for prom (even though my boyfriend was there…with HIS date. Long story.). So don’t believe all the Taylor Swift and Avril Lavigne bullshit about the cheerleaders being all perfect and having it all. Because it’s bull. shit.

2. I don’t eat blue things.
Blue foods are just not natural. I don’t bother telling me that blueberries are blue because obviously Fruit Namer McJoe is colorblind; they are obviously purple. And gross anyway.

And it’s no use trying to convince me that neon orange Cheetos aren’t natural. Because they are delicious.

My logic just can’t be beat.

3. Do Huggies come in size 12?
This is more about Bee than me, but at just a few months shy of 3 years old, Bee shows absolutely no desire to potty train. Like NONE. And we’ve tried everything: candy incentives, toy incentives, cool musical toilets (which, no fair, right? MY toilet doesn’t sing when I piss…). Her best friend even pees on the potty already and Bee is all, “Good for you. Hey mom? I just shit myself again. Clean it up, kthnxbai.”

I’m just hoping to get her potty trained by high school. Or college.

4. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
Despite my obvious awesomeness, I may be one of the most insecure people I know. Especially when it comes to relationships (friendships, really). I’m constantly wondering if my friends like me or simply just put up with me. Totally healthy, right?

One of my morbid concerns is that when I die, no one will bother to come to my funeral. I’m totally convinced that I’ll just be all gorgeous and floating around, waiting to see who arrives and who is crying the most (I’ll haunt that person the least), but only like five people will show up. So you fuckers have been warned: I will torture your ass from beyond if you don’t come to worship celebrate my life after I croak.

Luckily, I have some friends that not only know all my craziness but love me anyway! For that I am soooo thankful. Love you to the moon and back!

5. Hi. My name is Mama Bee and I’m addicted to the Interwebs. (HI MAMA BEE!)
Seriously. Like if my friends email or Facebook me and I don’t respond within five minutes, they send out search parties. I often get “Is everything okay?!” emails and texts when people don’t hear from me for, gasp, an entire day! I find it hilarious and just a bit disturbing because, yes, I’ve checked Facebook about 54 times already while typing this post.

Okay, that’s all I have for now. If NickJr. doesn’t make me kill myself this morning, I’ll try to come up with something a little more interesting to write about!

Song title: Random Funk by Schnitt Acht

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

To overcome my severe and debilitating writer’s block, last week I reached out to you, dear readers, on ideas to write about. I got a few suggestions…

Arla-Shay suggested…
Explosive diarrhea is always fun. Can I bring you a couple of bean burritos from Taco Bell?

randomgiggles thought…
The Twilight series – your thoughts about this…(fan or not)
Friendships that have ended and how you overcame it..

These, while great suggestions, have either been asked and answered thoroughly (poo stories, really Arla-Shay? You haven’t had enough?!) or are topics that I can’t exactly write about in this semi-public (who am I kidding? UBER-public!) forum.

You see, when I started writing this blog, it just began as a “ooh, what a fun what to chronicle Bee’s baby years”. Honestly, like most things I do, I didn’t imagine sticking with it past week 4. And that’s being generous.

So when I started writing about my Spanx Exercise Adventure and Foul Diaper Situations, I only thought about 15 people would be reading those crappy additions to the blogsphere.

But soon, I was whoring my blog out to anyone who would listen. Dentist appointment? I’d tell everyone within ear range about the blog. Given, it probably was a little difficult to translate with 50 pounds of torture devices in my mouth at the time. Pap smear? I’d mention all my vagina documentation without missing a beat. Gastroenterologist and Therapy Session? You don’t even want to know…

My point? Is that now all the people I would want to dish about and relive funny stories about with them, well, they probably read the blog, too.

Let’s just say I’m about 2 for 3 for roommates that still like me after the fact. But as for that one who doesn’t, maybe that will make a good post someday, because I’m sure that bitch lovely, character-building individual doesn’t read the blog (or wouldn’t admit it if she did).

Hmmm…Maybe we can make an exception and unseal these lips for a day or two…

Song title: Our Lips Are Sealed by The Go-Go’s