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

Kids are awesome.

But as parents, we all know a little secret.

Our own kids are Full of the Awesome.

You know, more than your kids.

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

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

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

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

Unsurprisingly, this is what she produced:

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

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

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

What. The. Fuck?!

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

“HOLY SHIT, BEE!!”

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

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

Okay, by “us” he means me.

Song title: Einstein’s Daughter by The Nields

A 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

Okay, first of all, I need to apologize to all of you that spent last week sitting vigil at your computers awaiting a new Mom to Bee post in vain.

Wait, what?

Really?

You aren’t just hanging on my every foul word? God dammit.

Anywho, there is a totally good reason for my recent absence (you know, other than pure laziness. Can you be considered lazy when you are creating another human being inside of you? I mean, what have YOU done today? I percolated LIFE, asshole).

I’ve been on-call for the last few weeks because…wait for it…I potty trained Bee (yes, it took me three years to get off my ass and potty train my kid. Shut it.)!!

And it took, no really, 3 days.

Nope, that’s not a typo. THREE DAYS. Only!

Don’t get me wrong, the first two days I was pretty much ready to kill someone (namely, Bee). Our first step was to finally get Bee some big girl underpants (duh). After raiding Target for all things Disney, Mickey Mouse and Hello Kitty (sidenote: Hey sexist underwear creators? My daughter REALLY wanted Cars underwear but they only come in boy! I really wanted to avoid the “Why do these have a weird hole in the front?” and eventual trying to PEE out of that hole, so fuck you, Underwear Creators.), we headed home on a Sunday night and put her in her new underpants for a few hours before bedtime.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Bee to catch a strange look on Bee’s face and we immediately swooped in and threw her upon her froggie training seat in the kitchen. Sure enough, she started to poop on the potty for the first time!

But that’s not the best part. While she was pinching one off, it totally captivated her. As she watched the, uh, process, she declared, “I see a mouse!”

Yes, darling, a poop mouse is coming out of your butt. Awesome!

Then, even better: “I think I see a tail!!”

Cue Mr. Bee vomiting in his mouth and me rolling on the floor in a hysterical fit of laughter.

Mr. Bee still dry heaves when I tell that story, but I, on the other hand, tried like hell to get it to catch on. But no matter how many times I ask Bee is she needs to make a Poop Mouse, she just won’t entertain my craziness. She’s kinda selfish like that.

And that was the beginning and the end of our initial potty training success. The next two days consisted of Bee peeing pretty much everywhere in the house like she was a cat in heat. With a incontinence problem. While drunk.

It took all of my will power to not grab her by the shoulders and scream, “You are one of the smartest kids I know!! Moms in the neighborhood talk about how intelligent you are! NOW STOP SHITTING YOURSELF!!!”

But instead, I took some Xanax shots deep breathes and let her come to the realization on her own that shitting one’s self, while obviously having some benefits, was not something that big girls do.

Then came Wednesday.

Poof!

She was potty trained. I’m not shitting you (cue rim shot). She went almost two weeks without a single accident and the one that she has had was just due to her not being able to get to the potty quick enough at home.

So the good news is: my little iddy biddy bebe is a big girl now.

The bad news is: now I have a Costco metric shit ton of size 4 diapers.

But hell, I still pee myself when I sneeze/cough/laugh/breathe/am awake so maybe I can find a use for them after all…

Song title: Spring Training by Wharton Tiers

Wow.

That is all I have to say about today’s song title.

Wow. And awesome.

Okay, those are the TWO things I want to say about today’s song title.

Wow, awesome, and who the fuck are Alice Donut?

Okay, there are THREE things I wanted to say about today’s song title…

Anywho, for those of you who have been following along in The Days of My Placenta, I finally got in for my follow up ultrasound and the results are…

…drum roll please…

…my placenta is no longer falling out of my vagina!!!

[canned applause]

I gotta say that I will miss all the jokes about my exposed placenta and the idea of leaving a slug-like placenta trail on the ground wherever I go.

Shut up, I never said my sense of humor was classy (shocker, right?)…

(Un)fortunately, that means that I am also off “pelvic rest”.

“Yay.” (read so heavy with sarcasm that it makes you spontaneously lose control of your bowels)

However, there is this hilarious phenomenon that I discovered while on “pelvic rest” that I won’t miss. I have decided to call the “What Would Mr. Bee Say” Manifestation. It typically occurs while accompanied by a friend during some sort of minor activity including, but not limited to, lifting anything weighing more than a feather, managing more than one child at a time, having to exert myself at all (which may play a part in the fact that I gained EIGHT POUNDS last month. Well, maybe the Nom Nom Nom played a part too…)

My slight exertion will cause any friend within ear range to scream “Stop! I’ll do it!” and when I ask why, the response is a scripted “What would Mr. Bee say?! He would KILL me if I let you do that!!”

Apparently his craziness has proceeded him. Or maybe it’s just contagious.

Either way, hopefully people will start letting me be active sometime soon, because I’m transitioning from this:

to this:

fast.

Song title: Cow’s Placenta to Armageddon by Alice Donut

Is anyone else counting the days until this craptastic Seattle weather gets all sunny and summer-like?

Last year was our first summer in the new house and it was so much fun having pool parties in the back yard with the neighborhood kids.

The only problem?

This year, I’m kind of obsessed with making the backyard some sort of suburban playground wonderland for Bee and her little friends.

Like really, really scour-flea-markets-garage-sales-and-Craigslist-for-outdoor-toys obsessed.

We even got a new pool for the backyard this year to replace last year’s. I promised Mr. Bee that I wouldn’t share this story because, well, we’re really just totally embarrassed at our own laziness, but I think it’s kind of hilarious.

So, all summer Bee and her little friends enjoyed this pool that, while, wonderful, was a pain in my burning asshole to inflate, clean, move, pretty much maintain in every way. We didn’t do a great job covering it when we weren’t using it, so it routinely filled with grass and bugs and all things that make me go “Bleck” when I’m outdoors (which is pretty much everything in nature).

Instead of boring you with all the boring minutia (and because Mr. Bee is still too embarrassed for me to really speak the words on the blog), I have interpreted the story with my extraordinary artwork. Enjoy. Please?

Song title: A Summer Place by Andy Williams

This last Saturday, Mr. Bee and I went on one our infamous date nights.

Well, they actually aren’t that infamous or famous even. It just sounds much more impressive when I start the post out all flashy and whatnot.

So did we run off to Vegas or have dinner in a Michelin-starred restaurant?

Nope. We saw Alice in Wonderland in 3D because:

1. Who says Tim Burton movies aren’t romantic? (Here’s a hint: Me.)

2. If I’m getting dressed up for a date, you better fucking believe I’m gonna be wearing these…

Can you believe they ask you to recycle these glasses so some other schmuck can use them? What am I supposed to use when it gets sunny outside? Can you imagine how awesome the outdoors would be in 3D?

Well, we can dream, can’t we…

First of all, can we all acknowledge that Tim Burton is one twisted dude? I mean, you’d have to be to think of those visuals, right?

The entire movie I was staring at Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter thinking, “how can such a beautiful man looked sooooooo fugly?!”

Then I remembered Brad Pitt’s braided chin pubs and the world made much more sense again.

Secondly, can you imagine a movie like The Ring in 3D? I am the first one to admit that any Japanese horror movie in 3D would surely make me pee myself.

You know, more than I already pee myself when I sneeze, cough, laugh, blink, breathe, sleep, and sit unmoving (like at the movies).

But since they already give you free glasses, maybe Poise Pads are next?

I just wouldn’t recommend recycling those…

Song title: Love in 3D by Soma Sonic

And by “horse”, I mean “baby”.

Duh.

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

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

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

And that’s being conservative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Song title: A Horse With No Name by America

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

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