Bee: Daddy, can you take Bug to another room so I can play?

Mr. Bee: Sure, honey. In just a minute.

Bug walks past Mr. Bee, trips and falls. Bug starts crying.

Bee: Aaaaaawkward…

Song title: My Daughter by Bermuda Mavericks

Me: Hey, Mr. Bee. This is weird. This article says that the Seals that killed Osama Bin Laden died in a helicopter crash in Afghanistan.

Mr. Bee: Hmmm.

Bee: That IS weird! Seals shouldn’t be in a helicopter!! They should be in the water!

Me: ((laughing hysterically))

Song Title: From Mouth Of Babes by Old Californio

This last weekend, Mr. Bee and I celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary.

I’ll hold for your applause…

I totally thought, “Yay for us! We are so bad ass!” and then the waitress at dinner pointed out a couple who was celebrating their 44th anniversary.

Way to rain on my parade, lady.

Anywho, Mr. Bee and I had a totally awesome time. And also realized how ridiculously exhausted and parents-of-two-young-children we are.

First, we visited the newly-remodeled iPic (formerly Gold Class) Cinema in Redmond. After being a total bitch complaining about the business format changes, the VP of Marketing kindly offered to treat us on our first visit back post-makeover.

And, as if that wasn’t enough to make me feel horribly guilty about complaining on Facebook, then they (1) wished us a happy anniversary every 2.9 seconds, (2) treated us like fucking royalty, and (3) comped our entire bill!! Talk about best anniversary present ever!! (Sorry Mr. Bee)

Even better, it was a great opportunity to visit the new establishment, which, to be honest and in no way bias due to the super awesomeness of being comped, is not that different from the previous business model. Sure, there aren’t the call buttons which will be sorely missed. This leads to, I think, more interruptions during the first 20 minutes of the show when you can still order from the waitress. But besides that, if you are going to shell out the cash to be the premium plus VIP super awesome seat ticket holder or whatever they call it, I don’t see a huge difference in service or experience.

My one complaint, though, was something I don’t think I could forgive any company for, let alone my beloved Gold Class…

They switched popcorn vendors.

That’s right folks. Pull your jaw off the floor. The wonderful, fantastical, mouth-wateringly delicious white cheddar popcorn that I crave and look forward to every visit?

It’s. Gone.

I would’ve rather they kick me in my lady bits.

And the new popcorn is in this plastic bag that I stared at all movie thinking, “gawd, I want to eat that but if I open it now, everyone watching Ron and Hermoine play tonsil hockey will stone me to death in the public, albeit super fancy, town square.”

But I seriously digress.

After the movie, we checked in to our hotel because, guess what? My folks watched the crotch parasites overnight! Woooo to the mother fuckin whooooooo!

And when we got the hotel, did we make sweet love down by the fire? Did we whisper sweet nothings in to each other’s ears?

Nope. We took a nap.

Then we went out for a fantastic dinner, which we couldn’t really enjoy because we had each our weight in food at iPic. Once we got back to the hotel, we pondered the night’s options. Another movie? Stay in and get a movie on pay-per-view ($19 to rent Source Code?! You’ve got to be kidding me!)?

And then we fell asleep.

At like 9 pm.

It was the best anniversary weekend EVAR.

Song title: Anniversary by Tony!Toni!Tone!

First of all, I totally apologize for the photo-heavy posts lately! I have to take this crawl out of the pit of sleep-deprivation and bloglessness slowly…

So last weekend, for my parent’s 40th wedding anniversary (which, wow, seriously. FORTY YEARS!?), the whole family got together for a professional photo shoot.

Yeah, I know. I’m a total photo whore. I can’t get enough of professional photos! It’s getting slightly ridiculous.

Anywho, we received a few sneak peeks from the photographer (Jessica Hamlin Photography = winning!). Upon viewing the photo, I realized that I have a photo checklist that I go through in my head to decide whether or not the photo, or more honestly ME in the photo, passes judgment.

Here is the photo:

Here is my mental checklist of myself:

Final Judgment:
Babies are the best camouflage ever! Will now be carrying a baby in front of my stomach wherever I go.

Thank you Jessica Hamlin Photography for the awesome photos!

Song title: Worst Critic by Daize

I don’t want to be a braggart or anything, but you will be totally be jealous of my evening last night. I mean, not everyone gets to enjoy a home-cooked meal (*cough* nachos *cough*) and then enjoy a relaxing bath while being serenaded.

By a three year old.

Did I say jealous? I meant “entertained”.

As was I, by her trio of impromptu songs accompanied by her Little Tikes piano (“Little Tikes piano” being from the Old French “anoier” which roughly translates as “horribly loud and fucking annoying xylophone”.)

Please enjoy her Bee Ballads: (trademark! You’ll see why…)

Song One: “Mommy, I love you to the moon and baaaaack! I love you, Mom!”

Song Two: “Bug, I love you more than the moon and staaaaaars! I love you, Bug!”

Song Three: “Daddy, I love you more than a sheep and a cow and a horse! I love you, Dad!”

So apparently, in Bee’s world, things are ranked as follows:
(in order of importance)
*Bug
*Mom
*Astronomy
*Dad
*Farm Animals

Song title: The Old Bathing Beauty by Joel McKneely

While I attempt to remember and document my first night of boozahol-fueled debauchery in, oh, probably like a year and a half, please enjoy this hormone-spiking photo taken this weekend by Mr. Bee.

I can’t stop staring at this photo, even when the subjects are right in front of me. Kids are so much cuter on film than in person.

Song title: Killed by Cuteness by Almada

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