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Four Years Old

9 Jun

Most people warn you about the Terrible Twos.

“Ha!” you say. “The Terrible Threes are the worst!”

Well, I call Bullshit. With a capital Bee.

You see, my daughter turned four in April and during the last month she has been horrible. Well, horrible doesn’t quite cover it.

It’s like if you took a lioness on her period, starved her for a week and then got her hopped up on Red Bull and Four Loko and then placed her in a room full of helpless little puppies.

It’s a blood bath.

And if you didn’t understand the analogy, I’m the unsuspecting puppies.

One minute she’s snuggling the shit out of me and saying things like, “Mom? You know what?” ((pause for an ungodly amount of time for dramatic purposes I’m assuming)) “I love you to the moon and stars.”

And just as my heart begins to melt in to a puddle, the hyper/drunk lioness on the rag comes out.

Today, she screamed for a half hour because I wouldn’t rock her like a baby before her nap like her father did last night before bed. Thanks, honey.

Yesterday, she had a my-life-is-coming-to-an-end screaming fit because she didn’t want to wear socks with her tennis shoes, yet didn’t want to wear her tennis shoes without socks.

I know she’s only four years old, but come on! Even she has got to admit her faulty (and fucking ridiculous) logic.

Oh, and did I mention that her tantrum today (about the rocking/I can’t sleep without Mommy or Daddy because I’m a baby) woke up her sleeping baby brother? Yeah, people almost died.

The topper is that all the tantrums relate to her not being able to do a goddamn thing independently since turning four.

That’s right. No going potty by herself. No dressing herself. Sometimes even refusing to feed herself.

Until now, Mom and Dad were playing nice. Firm, but nice.

Well, now the big guns come out.

I suspect that there will be a great many screaming fits coming from her room as I plan to semi-permanently banish her there come the next blowout.

But, hey. Maybe now I’ll have more time to blog…

Song title: Four Years Old by Adam Sandler

About Those Hormones

20 Oct

Anybody know when these ridiculous hormonal surges are going to stop?!

We’ve already discussed my never-ending pasta bowl of a stomach, which I attribute to breastfeeding every two minutes and, well, my complete lack of will power to stay away from donuts, cookies and bagels.

But now, NOW, I’ve started the super awesome process of losing all that lush and glossy hair that you accumulate during pregnancy.

For the uninitiated, during pregnancy, your hair cycle slows due to hormones and whatnot so all that hair that you would normally slough off daily sticks around. That’s why your hair looks all full and glorious when you are with child.

But then, THEN! A few months after you are ripped in two give birth to your beautiful bouncing boob gobbler precious bebe, those goddamn hormones catch up to you and poof! You start losing all that hair you accumulated for 9 months!

And I don’t mean, “Oh look! I have a stray hair on my shoulder.”

I mean that I look like a goddamn Yeti with trichotillomania.

My shower looks like a million daddy long legs went hari kari in the drain.

My shirts all look like someone from PETA should be throwing a bucket of red paint at me.

That, plus the hot flashes I have during my 800 times a day breast feeding marathons, equals one dirty, sweaty, hairy mama.

And somehow Mr. Bee still wants to get up on this. I mean, has he SEEN me lately?

I think I’ll start calling it Hormone Blindness.

Song title: About Those Hormones by Jeffrey Evans

Blow Out

28 Jul

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.

Join My Facebook 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

Doctor Doctor (Have Mercy on Me)

15 Jul

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

I’m Over It Now

28 Jun

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

Touch My Body

17 Jun

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

Attention Whore

10 Jun

Okay, first of all, can we take a second to acknowledge that, Holy Hairy Monkey Balls, this kid is going to be out of my body is less than 60 days.

Dood.

There are a lot things that I’m going to miss once this pregnancy is over (as I am going to give my doctor precise instructions to sew up my baby hole the minute I’m done birthing all there is to birth. There is no in or out of that area. Closed. Going Out of Business. Foreclosed, even.)

I’ll definitely miss feeling the little dude flopping around inside of me and having that bond with him that no one else gets to have. (The stretching straight out of my body until my abdominal muscles scream in agony? Uh, not so much.)

Another thing I’ll miss, and don’t take this the wrong way because I swear, despite this post title that I’m not an attention whore, is all the positive attention you get while you are noticeably pregnant.

I feel the need to specify “noticeably” because that is a whole other post about how ridiculous the “I swear I’m not fat, I’m building a baby!” stage is.

Anywho, let’s be honest: pregnancy attention is awesome. Everyone dotes on you (or they should, at least), complete strangers become magnetically drawn to you and start “how cute are you” conversations out of no where, and in general, everything is pretty mama-centric for 6-9 months.

Because, don’t kid yourself, the minute you pop that kid out of your lady garden, even your closest friends and family will forget your name. To this day, when I arrive at my parents’ house, I swear the folks greet Mr. Bee and Bee immediately and then about a half hour later realize that I’m there, too!

But the thing that I’ll really miss are those random, friendly smiles you get from complete strangers out in public. I’m normally one of those people that will shoot you a smile when I pass you in the mall, but typically in response will get a what-chu-lookin-at glare or a do-I-know-you questioning glance.

However, add in the big, cute belly and obvious gestation of human life and all of a sudden everyone is your best friend! Nothing is sweeter to me than to have some random lady glance at my orca belly and give me a big ol’ sweet grin.

Soon my giant gestation-ness will be replaced with dumpy post-pregnancy-ness. And god knows, no one likes a frumpy and, let’s face it, probably un-showered mom with a newborn.

Let’s just hope this kid is as adorable as Bee so I’ll get a little forgiveness for my appearance and people won’t completely forget I exist. Hopefully more than just my odor will remind them…

Song title: Attention Whore by My Evolution

Wet Dream

27 Apr

Holy night sweats, Batman.

I am completely out of practice when it comes to this whole pregnancy thing. With Bee, I was mostly pregnant during the winter, which was not only awesome because I felt like I had some magical superhero power to stay warm all the time, but also saved me the expense of finding a winter coat that would button over my expanding waistline because I was hot ALL THE TIME.

However, when I was in my first trimester with Cletus, I was convinced that my uterus was infested by a reptilian baby because I was freezing. Like Kramer on Seinfeld core-temperature-lowering cold.

That is, until last night.

I have been noticing some, well, wetness issues lately when I’m sleeping. Initially I would wake up to my thighs pressed together sandwiching a layer of sweat? Urine? Amniotic fluid?

I figured that neither peeing my pants or my water breaking would defy the laws of
gravity so I must just be sweating myself.

I could surely handle some wet legs every now and then.

Again, until last night.

You see, last night I woke up sweating more profusely then Michael Jackson at a Cub Scout meeting.

What? Too soon?

Anywho, I was literally trembling cold, drenched and wondering how I could be sweating and freezing my ass off at the same time. Aah, the mysteries of pregnancy.

But I gotta say, I’ll take the night sweats over peeing the bed any day. (I was really starting to think that Poise or Huggies Overnights in size 31 were in my near future.)

Song title: Wet Dream by Dr. Demento

Re-Education (Through Labor)

18 Apr

This has got to be the best and most accurate description of labor/delivery EVER.

“Well. I think a stork, he umm, he drops it down and then, and then, a hole goes in your body and there’s blood everywhere, coming out of your head and then you push your belly button and then your butt falls off and then you hold your butt and you have to dig and you find the little baby.”

- From the movie Knocked Up.

Song title: Re-Education (Through Labor) by Rise Against

Doctor Time

20 Jan

CLICK FOR FREE STUFF!! Don’t forget to enter my latest giveaway for a pair of delicious hand-knitted mittens for your favorite little toddler!! (click here to enter the contest!)

Also, I just got word from Arla-Shay that she’ll knit a pair of mittens for a boy if you’d prefer!!

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So last week I had my first Cletus the Fetus doctor appointment. Finally, this pregnancy is starting to feel more “real”.

You know, more real than feeling like I’m going to vomit every 5 minutes.

I realized about a week ago that due to the twelve months of constant humping and constant disappointment (not necessary due to all the humping) to get this baby in my ute, that I’m a lot more cautious. I mean, I know this baby is in there and most likely isn’t going anywhere, I just haven’t wanted to get myself too excited after so long, just to have something tragic happen after all that wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’…

But I digress…

Last week, well, something great happened! We got to see our little Cletus for the first time!!

cletus the fetus

Isn’t he/she just darling? It’s okay, you can say it…it IS the cutest little fetus you’ve ever seen, right?

And while just being in an OB/GYN’s office definitely puts you in the “woohoo! I’m pregnant!” frame of mind, it also reminded me of what lays ahead.

Like the elaborate prepping-for-surgery-esque work you have to do to your vagina before just peeing in a cup.

And having to walk around the office and get home with a vagina full of KY Jelly after a vaginal ultrasound (which, trust me, isn’t as fun as it sounds) or a lucky visit with a “full exam”.

And the potentially embarrassing Biggest Loser weigh-in each visit. Every time I go in, I still ask if they want me to take off my shoes, coat, purse, clothes, underwear…anything to make that number smaller, right? (Thank god it’s still early and I’ve only gain 4 pounds. That will change soon, my friends. Soon.)

Side note: I totally thought I was starting to “show” until I sat amidst a bunch of women who were at least 8 months pregnant. Then I just felt like I was in an episode of “One of these things is not like the other…”

I’m starting to get really excited about Cletus (and even more excited for the little dude to get the fuck off my bladder sometime soon), but what other things did I forget with my Momnesia (you know, that helpful little thing that makes you forget all the shitty aspects of pregnancy so that you are dumb enough to try it again)?

Song title: Doctor Time by Rick Trevino

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